


golden

by wideworldoffanfics



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wideworldoffanfics/pseuds/wideworldoffanfics
Summary: Hollywood, 1946. A world fresh from the Second War and emblazoned with glamor and glitz. The stars shine and they shine bright. One such is Elizabeth Dandridge who fights tooth and nail every day to be all a star is meant to be. All of it, her hopes and most clandestine of dreams, are put on the line when she finds herself entangled with aspiring singer Harry Styles.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	1. one: the age of gods and mortals

They lived to be the greatest. Although she never quite reached the limelight of Katharine Hepburn and Vivien Leigh; despite the fact that his voice never met the masses as that of Frank Sinatra or Duke Ellington, they were the greats. Perhaps not to those around them, surrounded by sublime talent and exquisite beauty, the pair only rose to true greatness in the eyes of one another.

It was the age of the gods. Magnetic stars that effortlessly brought to life the stories and dramas of false characters. The silver screen was alight with hope and the promise of love thereafter, prosperity, and genuineness in a time where it all had been believed lost. They were faces carved from the hands of Michelangelo and Bernini, easy to love and difficult to hate. Voices gifted down from the high heavens, caressed in silk and honey.

It was the age of mortals. Mere men and women flooded by the harsh reality of their lives. A topsy-turvy world that was not keen on being understood. From the hurtling and revenant Depression that only found an end in the War Against Hitler, which spawned its own period of darkness. Through it all, the masses themselves meandered to the grand escape from the dreariness of true life: the theater. Fictional pictures became the easy way to forget about one’s troubles. To watch, listen, and laugh towards those characters on the big screen. Pine after a faux happy ending and wait with baited breath, the edge of the seat, as the hero raced to save his damsel in distress.

One such damsel went by the moniker Elizabeth Dandridge. Unlike her golden-auraed fellow stars who had the misfortune of _unpleasant_ birth names, this one had been blessed with a Christian name and surname both fine on their own and tempting when paired. Betty to her family, Beth to only the closest of friends; she was simply, forever and always, Elizabeth Dandridge. Of equal parts talent and beauty, she exuded all that was required for a Hollywood starlet. She was to become the next Joan Crawford of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios.

While every distressed damsel is sure to be saved, the case was not so solid for her. For all of her characters to end the pictures dancing off in the sunset with their respective heroes, she was sure the same could be said for her. And yet, there was no man to save her. Only one to destroy her. One to send her careening off the cliff without so much a string to hold on to.

~~~~~

The Second War had only been over for a handful of months, though she imagined it as only yesterday. The bells, horns, and shouts of victory still rang through in her head, for how could it not when all had been on the cusp of bitter defeat? The country had celebrated for weeks, elation drawn out well into October of ’45. Champagne never stayed on the shelf long, a bottle possibly popped open every night in the toast of celebration. Adolf Hitler was dead, and Japan had been forced to surrender.

At what cost, though, she never failed to ask herself. Over four hundred thousand Americans lost to the great cause. But how many others? The French, the English? Maybe the Japs had bombed the Harbor, but did that really mean all those innocent ones had to die when Truman authorized the atomics? Or put in those camps, the way Hitler did the Jews? Camps that fueled a war. Not that she would ever bring life to those thoughts. She held no doubts that a quiet few harbored the same sentiments as she, for surely some _had_ to. But those words could find no home in the open world. It was common knowledge that each day, more and more people were carted away in the blind and raging hope of revealing crimson communism staining the United States.

To be accused of such was to be blackballed in all matters. From work, from society, family. Everything. There was too much to lose and she resigned herself to hold on to it all with a grip of iron.

Though the war brought its trials and griefs, she remained ever thankful that one beloved brother’s name never printed itself to a casualty or Missing in Action list. Elizabeth thanked God above every morning and night that He returned her brother intact. Not to say he was not changed, for he was. Physically, Howard remained the same strapping and dashing fellow he had always been. Emotionally, mentally, the light had died. His lust for life evaporated and had yet to reform. He held his job at the factory by a bare thread and spent money faster than he made it. Her money more than his.

“Howie?” Her voice echoed through the near-bare foyer. The only piece of decoration that dared accentuate the entry of the house was a close to dead hydrangea she had bought last week. The daily watering and sweet affirmations weren’t yet restoring life to the plant, but it would soon again be a bush of flamboyant blue. “Howe, are you awake?”

She paused, squinting at the left curved staircase. The musty beige carpet runner was half torn from the staircase, pieces of shag hanging limp against dark wood. Just another project that needed to be completed.

“Yer house is too big for jus’ you, Bet.” He trudged into the foyer, one hand rubbing a streak down his face, the other scratching the back of his neck. Damp copper hair plastered to his forehead. He had either been swimming or sleeping; her bet was on the latter. White cotton shirt askew, he postured himself against the gold banister of the right staircase.

At least the runner on that side was gone.

“It isn’t just me,” she reminded him, “you’re here.”

As of January, she no longer lived alone. Their parents had sent Howie packing with her back to Hollywood after her Christmas visit. A holiday of extraordinary measure, not only celebrating the birth of the Lord and Savior, but also Howie’s safe, unharmed return from the War.

“Not for long, I hope.” The molasses words were sap from a tree in dead December. “Once I pay this loan back, I’ll be gettin’ my own place. Might even go back home.”

At that, she raised both eyebrows. Even if he hadn’t been keen on the idea of moving in with her, he’d been equally as desperate to get out of their hometown as she had been a few years prior. There was nothing for either of them there. Only stale memories of childhood and the stiff love of parents. The world lay beyond the borders of that small Texan town and both the Dandridge twins were eager to explore it.

“Where were ya, anyway?” His head jutted to the white double-doors she stood with her back to. “Awful early to be out.”

Her footsteps were silent when she left her post to hang the lightweight overcoat on the rack. Though the California winter was warm, there was a stagnant chill not found in that of Texan winter. The idea of bundling garments with coats, scarves, and hats was still a foreign one, even three years into the settling. “Training. I have an audition coming up that Paul said I need to land.”

The audition itself would be easy as making lemonade. However, the training was arduous and often times boring. Hours of watching her previous pictures, picking apart anything that was less than perfect. Nailing down the matching of tones and expressions. Adjusting her posture and stride to acquire that highest level of femininity. Followed by another two hours of voice training in the vain hope of perfecting the silken words of the film stars and wiping away any and all traces of that hazy Texan lilt that would not quit her vocal chords. It stuck like glue; the more she tried to wash it away and cover it with something else, the harder it was to hide.

He followed her path to the kitchen, mirroring her rigid posture and uniform steps. The way a young animal impersonated another of older age. “Do ya always have to walk like you’ve got a stick up yer ass?”

Elizabeth refused to acknowledge him before swinging open the refrigerator and taking the half-gone bottle of orange juice. “Must you always speak so vulgarly?” She sighed, pouring herself a glass.

Though twins, their shared birth story was the hard line where resemblance ended. Only blood and familial devotion tied them to one another. They weren’t the same and never would be. Another piece of proof to that fact when Howie slipped a worn pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket.

“Not in the house,” said through gritted teeth when he dug a cigarette from the others. Eyes narrowed, he jammed the butt of it between his lips. “Howard, I mean it. They smell awful.”

He shouldered past her, orange juice swishing out of the glass to the floor. Her teeth clamped on the inside of her cheek.

“Goin’ out for a bit. Won’t be back ‘til late, don’t wait up.” He grumbled.

Already gripping a dish cloth, she inquired as to where he would be off to. It wasn’t as if he had any friends or even acquaintances to whistle dixie around with. She dropped the cloth to the floor and used her foot to wipe away the mess. By the time she looked up from the newly cleaned mess, he was gone. All that remained was the lingering scent of stale smoke.

“Just hunky dory.” She muttered.

~~~~~

“This will do very nicely, thank you.” Harry nodded as he took in the lavish room. Billowing curtains of translucence that shadowed the heaven outside the Beverly Hills Hotel. Lush carpeting and velveteen furniture. A much-needed change from the dreariness of London and Paris in their current state.

“If you need anything else, let us know, sir.”

He bobbed his head once again before the attended took his leave. His luggage had been brought up earlier, already stationed at the end of the circular bed. Plain compared to the fabulous nature of his temporary home.

Hollywood was to be his home for an indefinite amount of time. His career in singing had never really taken off back in England, not before the War. And when it came, he traded his guitar for a gun and went to fight the good one. How he managed to make it out alive, there was no direct answer. Faith, luck, destiny? All he knew was that he was alive, the way so many others weren’t. As someone who had always dreamt of seeing the world, Hollywood became his first stop. And if he stayed, then he stayed.

So far, he was impressed by what he saw. Towering palm trees, beautiful people in glorious cars, none so glorious as his own though. This was the city of stars and if he was meant to be a singer, it would happen here. And he already had something lined up.

Having arrived earlier that day, he checked in to his new residence and dropped his luggage, intent on spending the day looking for a job. It only took three hours before he happened upon the Midnight Lounge and talked the owner into an audition. One which he aced and left with a new job as a nightly singer. It wasn’t the star-studded role he imagined for himself, but the greats all had to start somewhere.

Briefly, Harry wondered if the phone in his room granted access to long-distance calls. At some point, he would have to phone his mother and sister to let them know of his safe arrival and the start of his new career. Leaving them so soon after returning from Paris had been anything other than easy, but life required difficult decisions and to get what he wanted from life, he had to make the hard choice.

Upon doing a once-over of the room, he decided to properly get out and explore his new city. Having only seen bits and pieces on his previous expedition, he wanted to gain an intimate knowledge of Hollywood. No one wanted to be the poor chap wandering around to and fro without so much a grain of directional sense. Keys in pocket, coat still on, he departed from his dizzying hotel room.

The Beverly Hills itself encompassed the entirety of the idea of Hollywood’s infamous glitz. Vibrant pinks and diluted greens served an aura of comfortability, a vacation swaddled in the promise of returning home once inside the lobby. Extravagantly crafted furniture, opulent mirrors. Flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors led to the pool and sunbathing area.

The broads on this side of the country, Harry noted, were chock full of moxie. Not a one-piece swimming suit in sight. They all donned the high-risk high-reward suits of the new age. Tops like brassieres paired with form-fitting skirt bottoms that left little to the imagination. Two-piece swimming suits were only barely more daring than their predecessors but there was no denying the sweet satisfaction of that sliver of skin that glistened between top and bottom.

“Hi-de-ho.” One breezed right by him. A flurry of cigarette smoke and floral swimwear.

Harry blinked as she giggled to her friend. The two women winked and continued on. One paused and pointed back, hand waving lazily in distinction of the ink that decorated his available skin. Tattoos were the one thing that sent his mother over the edge. He didn’t do it to dig under her skin; he simply thought they looked nice. Body littered with near sixty pieces of inked art, Harry Styles was accustomed to the reaction of, well, everyone.

Sure, it was 1946 and the Second War was officially over but that didn’t stop anyone from narrowing their eyes in disdainful judgment at his decision to decorate his skin as he saw fit.

The boulevards didn’t amass to quite the level of glamour that the hotel did, but to say he was disappointed in anything he saw was a lie. Streets fronted with the busyness of traffic; dark and pastel cars alike, all full of enthusiastic citizens headed to a safe unknown in a land where anything was possible. The promise of it all poised in nine white letters that hovered over the city in the fiercest of abandons.

Right next to a mom-and-pop diner was a poster for a film. In small block lettering at the top, he saw **1944**. One thing he never understood was how people managed to create films during the war. There was no denying that the films provided a needed distraction from the chaos that the war brought, but God who had the heart? His steps faltered, eyes trained on a two-year-old film advertisement. It was easy peasy to recognize the man who was front and center. Gregory Peck. The woman next to him, Harry couldn’t place. A real cookie, though. A bonfire of hair coiled into pristine rolls. A smile to send the most wicked of men to their knees. _Elegance of First Contact_ , the title rolled over the faded bottom of the poster.

Of course, the name struck no familiarity to him. It had come out while he was still in uniform. Battle left no time for films.

Names unlisted, the picture studio had clearly expected the prospective audience to recognize both stars and go flocking to the theater. The arrogance of notoriety. No one went to the cinema to see a movie about a mystery. They went to adore Veronica Lake in all her glory. To marvel at the wonder that was Bogart Humphrey. There was no other reason to see a film other than to bask in the notion that those very stars walked the same earth. At the same time as regular folk. Gods and mortals in their coexistence.

~~~~~

It was all about the range. The tone. Diction and perfection. The endless repetition of the same five words until it all clicked and became flawless in her own voice. Adjusting the shape of her mouth, the position of her tongue and how it moved when pronouncing.

“Once more, Elizabeth.” Randall snapped his fingers. “Like you mean it this time.” There was nothing of empathy or care in his tone. His job was to coach the impeccable voice, not to coddle the actresses. Mr. Mayer didn’t hire him to be nice. He hired him to be superb and to produce actresses with more desirable voices than whoever had the same job at Paramount or Warner.

Elizabeth frowned. Hour three of dialect crept up like a snake and bit just as hard. She rolled her shoulders, squaring them promptly before meeting his gaze. Randall Parks wasn’t on board with her ever-shifting gazes. If he was to give Mr. Mayer a good report on her progress, she had to look him in the eye when she spoke. At least, when he was assessing her.

“It is an err in judgment to roar in the mirror in terror and horror.”

His head bobbed against fisted hand. With his other, he motioned a circle. _Again_.

As much as she wanted to curtain his steeled gaze by closing her eyes, she refrained. She needed a good report in order to even be considered for this upcoming audition. While Mr. Mayer told Paul to tell her she was in the running for consideration, that meant nothing when going against the likes of more seasoned stars. Her only consolation on the matter was that the male lead was Gregory Peck and they had experience in working together. He had even complimented her work in _Elegance_ , which, from him, meant a great deal.

There was no ease in being hurtled into the world of film when everyone around her was more experienced and just better in general. She was around the greats and to one day be seen as a great, she had to be perfect.

“Good. Excellent.” Randall said after her fourth and final repetition. “We’ll snuff the Texas from you soon enough.” Something he had been saying for three years. Each time they came close, it reared its drawling head and fought back stronger than before. An insurmountable monster from legend, the southern tinge of her voice refused to accept defeat.

Randall snapped at her to go practice in one of the mirrors until the day’s lesson was officially concluded. Half the day the room managed as a movement studio and the other half as a dialect one. The mirrors that lined the back wall of the room were floor-to-ceiling. Every panel serving as a premeditated spot for one of the ten girls. She took her assigned spot between Siobhan and Peggy. Legs crossed in front of her body, Elizabeth stared back at her reflection.

At first glance, it was easy to pick apart the most obvious of differences between who she had been and who she was currently. Not only the physical separations, the others as well. The stiff line of her back that molded out into sharply positioned shoulders. Good posture was key, and she would have it no matter what. No slouching whatsoever. Head always level and chin always down. An upward chin meant indignation and ladies were never indignant. There was a new sheen in her gaze. Something beyond wonder and not close to pride. Close enough because she had made it this far. She had done it. Gotten out of that one-horse town and firmly planted herself in a world of glamorous cotton-candied dreams.

Her own dream that had been cultivated so tenderly, as one did a newly sprouted flower, from the time she was thirteen. That coldly awkward phase where she wasn’t a girl but not yet a woman either. Her direction in life unknown to herself but planned and ready to everyone else. Not everyone had the gumption or the drive to chase their dreams and then put in the extended effort to force them to happen. Elizabeth refused to be anything less than what she wanted and the only thing she ever wanted to be was an actress. Famous and revered, loved, respected, and adored by each and every person.

If continuous hours in dialect, movement, and drama were the path to that dream, she would walk it until her legs gave out.

Her mouth stretched and pulled. Up, down, side to side. Tongue out and back in. “It is an err in judgment to roar in the mirror with terror and horror.” The words came out in a manner of close excellence. Not close enough for her. Anything less than perfect was unacceptable. “It is an err in judgment to roar in the mirror with terror and horror.”

Peggy was watching her through her own panel. “You’re such a cold fish, Betty.”

She sucked in a breath at the nickname. Those were among the things she would never fully understand. _Nicknames_. What was the purpose of one? She endured Betty when it came from the blood relations; tolerated Beth when spoken by old friends from back home. She allowed her brother to refer to her as Bet, even though it rose bile from her stomach. Her name was Elizabeth. Always and forevermore, just Elizabeth.

Her parents had not Christened her Betty or Beth or Liz or Betsy. Only Elizabeth. Elizabeth Gertrude Dandridge. The middle name constantly and pleasantly forgotten with ease, for it was insufferable in nature and did in fact ruin the ambrosial sound of _Elizabeth Dandridge_.

“My name,” she sighed, “is Elizabeth.” She met the other’s gaze through the reflective panel, own eyes slotted down in fierce objection.

Perhaps if Peggy knew her better or wasn’t such a khaki wacky share crop. She’d never make it.

“And it’s called discipline, for the record. You should try it sometime.” With a pointed, abject glare at the other woman’s hem, Elizabeth rose from her seat.

“Can you believe…?” Peggy’s words dissolved in the air as Randall called the lesson to a close.

She grabbed her bag from one of the chairs and stormed from the room. She shouldn’t have made such a nasty comment about Peggy’s hemline. It wasn’t _so_ short, only about an inch above the knee. But, holy mackerel, was it easy to fall prey to the ruthlessness. There was no pride to be had in being vile or impolite. They were the most unladylike of characteristics It was simple to bite back at Peggy’s ragging with cut-throat remarks of her own. The line, always blurred, never hard to cross.

“Hey! Elizabeth, wait!”

Her steps found falter when met with the cool breeze of early evening. The sky a fountain of oranges and pinks, hued by the golden sinking sun. Her head refused to turn in acknowledgment of her pursuer.

“Peggy didn’t mean anything by it.” Siobhan. Her voice alone was hard to miss, coated in the thick slang of Irish abundance. Her dark curls bounced as she fell into step alongside Elizabeth. “She’s only jealous; you’re such an ace with all this.”

“I’m not that good.” Elizabeth murmured, tightening her hold on her purse.

Siobhan snickered. “Says the skirt who’s about to land her third role.” Elizabeth muttered that Peggy had secured herself several roles. More than three, to be exact. “Supporting ones. But you…you’ve been the lead in two knock-out pictures! Calling you an ace is on the nose. She’s just a little envious. You’re the only one of us that’s been close enough to kiss Gregory Peck.”

The gentle jab was enough to force a smile out of her. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of said star since the premier of _Elegance_. She still recalled the way his smile flashed and dazzled. And how he introduced her to Ginger Rogers after the show, both the seasoned actors praising her performance.

“We _did_ kiss, or haven’t you seen the film?” Her mouth formed a delicate smile. “He’s quite good at it as well. At least, from the dozens of three-second takes we had to do.”

Siobhan checked her shoulder against hers as she filtered out a giggle. “Isn’t he going to be in this new picture you’re vying for?”

She nodded, dropping her head. Her comfort with Gregory was going to be the leg up she needed to secure the role. They knew each other and worked well together. Vincent Combes even said that they produced an uncanny level of chemistry with one another. Since this upcoming film was sure to be another romance drama, their previous work history and spark was sure to grant her this next accolade.

“Hey, a couple of us are going to The Swan Room tonight. You want in?”

The boulevard rounded out into another and Elizabeth left the question to be pondered. There was too much to be done in exchange for a night out with fellow Hollywood newcomers. She still needed to finish ripping the runner from the staircase so that the renovators could stain the left one. That poor plant needed to be nurtured again, having been left unattended since morning. Dinner was a situation that needed attending in the most desperate of fashions. And Howie-.

Holy mackerel, Howie!

“No, I really can’t. I’ve got something planned with my brother.”

“No shit, you’ve got a brother?”

The curse stung in her ears as it resonated back into her mind. It was one of the principalities that clawed in and rooted itself from childhood. Ladies don’t swear.

“Mhmm. He just moved in with me two months ago. We have dinner plans.”

“Killer diller. See ya later, _Betty_.” Siobhan left her with only a crooked smirk and a half-apologetic _Sorry!_

_~~~~~_

This was the absolute last place she needed- or wanted- to be seen. By lord, if Mr. Mayer ever found out she had been in such a place of ill-repute, he would have her contract ripped and burned in the time it took to blink her eyes. Though her devotion to her brother only existed in the barest of terms, it was still a devotion.

Their parents had passed the buck on to her. Howie lived with her, he was hers to take care of. For the most part, she had no qualms in looking after her twin. Family took care of family. But there was an extent of exhaustion and he was pushing it.

There was no question of her love of him, only whether she liked him.

Sunglasses over her eyes, scarf fastened around her hair, and dark coat bundled over her torso, Elizabeth pushed into the lounge. It wasn’t the place where only men of low moral gathered to stare with hungry eyes at half-clad women- no, she would have very well left him to rot in such an institution. But it could have been. The women wore dresses that put Peggy’s to shame. Lips painted vicious red, hair fluff with activity. Their shortened skirts spun as men twirled them around the dancefloor. Upbeat music flared through the business; staunch alcohol and burning nicotine in the air.

It only took a half-meant glance for her eyes to zero in on her person of interest. He was near slouched over a gambling table, sandwiched between two large men. Forcing her shoulders back, Elizabeth meandered down the steps swiftly and zipped over to him.

Everyone coped differently. Each soldier had a set way of dealing with their survivor’s guilt, the remorse of losing friends and allies, the shame and pride of killing enemy soldiers, the shellshock. All of it. She knew not what others did, but Howie’s affliction was the reason he was in her stead.

His bender. The fact he was a souse. His crutch was alcohol. Something that had at first taken the edge off and brought peaceful sleep. But then he needed peace of mind during the day and before anyone knew it, he never went a minute sober. He loved the sauce and the sauce loved him just as violently.

“Howard.”

His head lolled when he looked up at her. Eyes glazed in watery red. His mouth formed an incoherent smile. “Betty!”

She clutched her hand around his shoulder. Nails dug deep into the dark fabric of his coat. “It’s time to go.” She didn’t dare meet the stares of the rest of the men gathered at the table. If they were here indulging her souse of a brother, they could be no good at all.

“Not done yet!” He tried to shag her off but in the sauced haze, his strength was nothing compared to hers. “One more hand. I’ve gotta win my money back.”

Her money.

“No.” She hissed, pulling him up from the chair. Her hand traveled to wrap around his bicep and turn him from the table.

“Ms. Dandridge, I presume?”

Her eyes flickered up, locking into those of the formidable man at the other side of the table. “My brother is done here for the evening.” The statement was nothing shy of reserved or kind. “You can continue stealing what dignity he has left another night.”

The man chuckled and by result, the others at the table did as well. The iron gaze he bore, though, suggested he was not often spoken to with such brevity. “Very well. But he does owe me for his drinks tonight.” The light overhead sparked off the man’s bald head and left his face a shadow. “He cannot leave until the debt is repaid.”

The backmost teeth in her mouth bit down into plush cheek. She delved into her purse and produced her wallet. From it, she tossed several ten-dollar bills onto the table. “Does that cover it?”

“It will do nicely for now. Have a splendid evening, Ms. Dandridge.”

She offered no other statement for any of them. Despite Howie’s lazed protests and futile attempts to fight her off, she dragged him from the lounge and back out into the street.

Elizabeth swallowed down each cruel, sallow insult that lodged into her mouth. So many came to mind and all were too crass to speak into existence. She only released her hold on him when they were well enough away from the lounge. Far enough he wouldn’t be able to find his way back in his current state.

“Think m’gonna spew.” He mumbled, legs wobbling as he danced away from her.

She reached out absently, curling a hand around his elbow to steady him. “Choke it down, you fool.”

“Betty, don’t be mean.”

She stalled, whipping to face him. Her eyes slanted with venom as she stared at him. This man, the supposed twin reflection of her soul and being. How was it that they shared a womb for nine months, let alone came from the same mother? Nothing between them remained similar in any manner and from the time they had been born, they existed as polar opposites. Her love of her brother could not be denied but her patience lacked severely, and she tired of him immensely as the days wore on.

A change in environment clearly did him no good at all.

“You haven’t seen mean, Howard.” She snarled at him. “I didn’t allow you to move here so that you could continue your benders through all the lounges and clubs in Hollywood. Mama thought this would help you and it isn’t. You’re not even _trying_.”

Under the streetlamp, his features painted themselves in remorse. “I just wanna forget it all ever happened.”

In a non-uniform way, her shoulders found themselves relaxed for once. Her grip softened. “I know. I know you do. But spending all your money, and mine, isn’t going to do that. You can’t keep gambling and drinking through it. And I can’t keep helping you. It needs to end, here and now. No more, do you understand?”

She didn’t work and practice and perfect all day every day, until her bones ached and groaned for him to blow through her hard-earned money on cards and Scotch or whiskey or whatever he poisoned himself with. She could not go on enabling him by throwing money at his problems. Else they become her problems too. Giving him endless cash to settle his tabs and forfeit in gambles wasn’t helping him in the least. Having a drunkard brother would bite her behind one day if she let him keep it up. The press would get ahold of it and blast her to Maine and back for housing such a disgrace. Or she’d get pictured hauling him from one of those dank infested buildings one night and then everyone would believe that she was as much a swigger as him. If he went on, he was going to ruin her. And that couldn’t happen.

“Yeah, yeah.” He muttered, bobbing his head in dejected agreement. There she was, stripping him of the only things that made him feel good. “No more.”

She spun back to stand next to him and reached her arm out, signaling for a taxi. Even for late at night, traffic still buzzed. One pulled up to a stop, rolling down the window. She leaned forward and gave her address as a masked question. The driver nodded and said he could go there.

She pulled open the back door. “So, who was that chrome dome buying all your sauce tonight?” She asked as Howie lumbered into the car.

“Lloyd Claymont. I promise as soon as I pay him back the money I owe, I’m outta yer hair, Bet.”

She froze. Caution claimed as she glanced back in the direction of the lounge. Lloyd Claymont. Dear Lord in Heaven…what had Howie gotten himself into?


	2. two: an incomparable mystique

_One, two, three. One, two three. One, two-._

“ _What_ are ya doing?”

Her ankle faltered in the distraction. Elizabeth tumbled and found herself braced against the golden banister of the staircase. Her eyes shifted from her feet to said distraction. Howie. Still clad in the previous day’s clothing. Thankfully, the stench of alcohol was nowhere to be smelled.

“Trying to practice my dance skills.” She pushed off the banister. Howie pressed down a smile, forcing his lips into his mouth. Rolling out her ankle, she gave him a frown. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothin’. Jus’ thought you was an actress, not a dancer.”

She cut her eyes. “I have to dance in the picture and unfortunately, I seem to have two left feet. Clearly, I was not meant to be a jive bomber.”

Elizabeth swiped her the back of her hand over her forehead, brushing away stray pieces that had fallen from her braid. With her back turned once more to him, she restarted her practice. One arm imaginatively curved around the shoulders of an invisible partner, her other hand just as falsely holding another’s.

It only took three times of the counted steps and a dreadful self-spin before she found herself in her brother’s grasp. Her arm around her shoulder and his against her waist. “Yer problem is that yer tryin’ to be the lead. Jus’ follow me.”

Exceeding her expectations, he proved to be a formidable dance partner. Her shoulders relaxed, tension ebbing away as she followed his steps. “Where did you learn to dance like this? I know it wasn’t in Aransas.” She questioned as he spun her away from his body.

“Wasn’t always shootin’ and fightin’ during the War. Had some nights on the town.” As he pulled her back to him. He dipped her and pulled her back up. “Jus’ do it like that and you’ll be aces. Remember, Gregory’s s’posed to lead.”

Elizabeth stepped back from him. She wiped her palms down the thighs of her pants. “How did you know Gregory was in the movie?”

Howie smiled genially. “Bet, ya talk all the time about yer work. Ya think I don’t ever listen?”

“You missed a real night out, Elizabeth.” Peggy breezed past her in a sickening cloud of cherry aroma. “We had the _best_ time.”

Smoothing the waist of her skirt against the tucked in teal blouse, Elizabeth met her gaze through the mirror. “I’m sure you did.”

She didn’t have the time for a vivid recounting of their night on the town. It was her last training session before the audition and all her thoughts and focus had to be centered on work. Not the unlucky former soldiers who found themselves in Peggy’s company. She certainly didn’t want to hear anything about them getting sauced; she dealt with that enough from her brother. 

“We checked out the Midnight Lounge, down on Franklin. Oh, God, Betty, they’ve got this new lounge singer and he’s just delicious. English and handsome as the devil. I mean-.”

“So, did you do it or not?” Elizabeth quipped. More than ready for it to be over and the chase to be cut. There had to be a point to it. Either Peggy gave up whatever she had for a British lounge singer or she was embellishing their night. No matter what the outcome, Elizabeth didn’t much care to hear it.

Peggy’s cheeks flamed red. “No, of course not.” Her voice didn’t rise with the words. It was the truth. “I know better than that. We have rules and certain ones aren’t meant to be broken.”

At least that got through her thick skull.

Upon the signing of any contract, the fine print of it all _had_ to be read. It was imperative that anyone who signed with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer knew exactly what they were signing into. Elizabeth herself read over her own contract thrice before finally signing the dotted line with impeccably perfect lettering. The fine print of the morality clause tended to be the reason so much new talent got cut out early on. To say Louis Mayer was stringent about the perception of his stars was an understatement. At all times they had to speak, look, and act as respectable, upstanding and immaculate beings.

Mostly, that meant no relationships. Anything beyond friendship was forbidden. Breach of contract meant the termination of employment, at best. At worst…Elizabeth shuddered at the thought.

“Good for you.” Elizabeth nodded solemnly. Although Peggy wasn’t her favorite person by any stretch of the imagination, it would have been a shame to see her blacklisted from Hollywood for being a trollop.

Then again, Peggy had a considerable amount of talent. If she were to be caught in the throes of passion, it wouldn’t be to Elizabeth’s disadvantage.

 _No_ , she told herself, _don’t think that way. You’re talented enough to get by without swindling the competition._

Not to say Peggy was any real competition. Perhaps for the other girls, but Elizabeth found herself above them in that respect. She had already been the lead in two successful pictures and was about to land that same spot in a third. Her capability had been recognized immediately, with no need to mosey in parts as an extra, nameless face in a crowd.

Some may have called it a gift from God. Her ability to step into any character with ease and with only a look, bring forth immeasurable depth and emotion. James Agee himself said that about her in his review of _Elegance_. Elizabeth, however, did not see her genius level of performance as a gift bestowed from the Lord. All her years of Christian-based schooling at Mother Katharine’s had not been enough to secure that strong a faith in her heart or soul. No, she would not give credit where it wasn’t due.

It was all due to her. Her hard work and dedication. The sleepless, endless nights spent stirring over the precise enunciation of words. Days spent at the cinema watching the same Joan Crawford film four times, so she knew exactly how to posture herself. She herself was the reason she stood where she did. No one else.

“You are _electric_!”

Harry looked up from the half-full tumbler of a decadent Sidecar. His one enjoyed perk of his new job was the free drinks. Of course, he wasn’t allowed to get sauced on the clock, not that he would ever do that. It was in poor form and he had to be on his best behavior if he was to one day make it big.

Franklin Levy, owner of the Midnight Lounge and Harry’s new boss, was strutting towards him. In typical fashion, Harry was an hour early for his nightly shift. His hours didn’t start until seven and he went until midnight. He preferred arriving early in order to get a drink in for his nerves. Always having been a fantastic vocalist, his gig with the lounge was his first real public performance, if one didn’t count the church chorus growing up.

“Thank you, I’m glad you think so.” Harry gave a generous smile as Franklin sat down on the empty stool beside him.

Once the tender of the bar, Wally, arrived and handed Franklin his usual two-cube ice water, the owner turned to face Harry head-on. “You’ve been a man on fire every single night, Styles. The audiences are eating you up.”

His cheeks warmed at the compliments. He was used to positive reviews in moderation and from those who knew him in the small arc of his personal life. To hear such raving at a magnitude from strangers sent a swell of unknown appreciation and pride through him. Harry had never doubted his vocal gift- the voice of Heaven, his mum said- but at times had worried whether or not he had the chops to make it big.

He wanted his songs on the radio. In televised advertisements. In the movies. He wanted people from all over the world to hear his voice. Franklin’s recount of the past audiences was further reassurance that he could do it and was one step closer to living out his dream.

“And the skirts,” Franklin paused for a drink of his water, “my God, man, they love you. I don’t know what they like more, your voice or your face.”

At this, Harry didn’t blush. He was acutely aware of his effect on the female population. Though ever modes about his physical beauty, he knew he was attractive beyond normal standards. And had his passion not been singing, perhaps he could have made a decent career in acting.

“Long as they keep comin’ back, righ’?” Harry asked him. That was, after all, the point of it all. To draw in a crowd. Having a good set of chords only went so far. While Harry had aced his audition for the spot, he had been wise enough to realize his looks played a significant part in the matter.

“That’s right.” Franklin clapped his shoulder. He slid off the stool and pushed his still full glass of water back towards the tender’s side. “Knock ‘em dead tonight, man.” Then, a chuckle and, “Oh, who am I kidding? I know ya will.” Franklin shook his head. Jamming his hands into the pockets of his white trousers, he went on his way back to his office.

There were very few things Elizabeth Dandridge was poor at. Needlework, patience, temperament, and singing were included in that short list. Having spent her entire life managing for excellence and nothing less than a point past perfection, she took extreme discomfort in anything that challenged her idea as the epitomal person.

Should someone ever think of the words _perfect_ or _phenomenal_ or _outstanding_ , she wanted to be the prime example that first came forth in their mind. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be the best. Had she not the conviction that one day she would be the best actress to grace the silver screen, she would have given up long ago. There was no point in doing anything if it wouldn’t end in pristine superiority. Which was why she gave up needlework after three days. She would never be the best at it, therefore it was useless to her. The same as singing. And she never looked back on either.

Her temper was manageable. Through strict regiments from school, her parents, and her own will, any piece of her that could be seen as callous or unbecoming was forced into the deepest recesses of her being. She was a lady and as a gracious being of Hollywood, Elizabeth had an image to maintain. Ladies did not drink. They were never sad nor angry or anything outside of passive silence or genial happiness. It was by these rules that she lived and constructed herself. Not just when out and about but at home as well.

And her patience…well, there was, after all, a reason she was up and at it at four-forty-five the morning of her audition. She had already consumed her allotted one cup of coffee at five-thirty after an extenuating shower. Unfamiliar jitters swept over her, unlike anything she had felt before. Nerves such as these hadn’t taken root at any time prior; not for the auditions of her first two pictures or even when she first met Mr. Mayer. This was the film.

 _Twisted Mystic_ would change her life forever.

The thought made her giddy.

Tea helped to calm the notions as she dressed for the day, painting her face in a light makeup. Mr. Mayer wasn’t much on the heaviness some girls did their faces in. Though she had never done anything to put herself on his bad side, she needed all the extra points she could get. He did have final say in the casting. The preferences of casting, the director, and producer were only mere suggestions. Rumor was, the director wanted Gene Kelly to play the male lead but he and Mr. Mayer had a rather unfortunate falling out. Hence, the solid choice of Gregory Peck.

Another step in the right direction for Elizabeth. She hadn’t ever met Gene Kelly. God only knew what chemistry they would have, if any at all. She had gotten lucky with the misunderstanding and Gregory’s casting. They worked well together, and she considered him a friend.

Her mood was effectively brightened and stabilized when the screaming began.

Elizabeth stared herself down in the mirror of her vanity. It was not something she had accounted on happening, though it occurred most often. With a deflated sigh none too far from annoyed, she pushed up to her feet. Perhaps it was another reason her parents had sent Howie to live with her. If the screams of his night terrors were so garishly loud in her large home, God only knew how unbearable they were in the little two-bedroom farmhouse.

Accompanied by her ever-growing indignation towards housing her brother, it was easy to forget that he had no control of his night terrors. They only ceased when he found himself unconscious by way of alcohol. Something she had put a stop to not long ago. The scale weighed heavy with the balanced choice: let him succumb back to the odorous perils of alcoholism or have to deal with his incessant nightmares?

Most if not all the returned soldiers experienced some form or another of shellshock. The price they paid for returning alive. Survivor’s guilt in the heaviest of forms, pressing down on their subconscious minds until they broke.

“Howie.” She slowly pressed open the door to his room. Flicking on the light, she trained her eyes on his form. Thrashing about on his bed, the blankets askew and hanging nimbly from the bedside. She half-expected to see a bottle of some sort on the night table but the only piece that resided was a glass of water. “Howe, it’s all right.” She left the door open as she stepped into the room.

He only stirred more, the new light and her voice doing nothing to break the hex upon him. Arms flailed, legs locked tight. Face red as a beet. Guttural pleas from shredded words to hang in the air like mustard gas. The sight almost snapped the strings of her heart. Once, it had. The first dozen times. Now, she grew tiresome.

“Wake up.” She sighed, ripping the blankets from the bed. She let them fall to the floor in a messed pile. At least he no longer wet the bed. “Howard, you need to wake up. I have to leave soon.”

Maybe she should have left him to thrash and scream until he woke up. Left the house without so much a peek in his room or a goodbye. Or maybe she simply should not have latched her hand to his shoulder.

But she did go into his room to rescue him. And she did grab him by the shoulder.

His eyes sprung open. His own hand snagged her throat and he vaulted forward. The corner of the night table clipped her temple as he shoved her to the floor. Grip like cold iron, he held her there. Eyes crazed and glossed over, mouth curled into the most animalistic of snarls.

For the first time in her life, Elizabeth Dandridge felt afraid. Not just of her brother, but overall. She had never before been scared. Not when, for a week straight, all her family ate was stale bread and hunger panged through her like licks of fire and each breath was ice. Not when she packed up all her belongings and moved away from her entire life. Not when Howie got his orders and had to ship out to a war he had no business fighting in.

It was iced, the pit of her stomach. Her entire body frozen as her twin life hovered over her. The pound of her heart thudding the drums of her ears. Her hand shook as it rose and grabbed on to Howie’s wrist. The pressure of his weight was crushing the delicate column of her throat. She would bruise if this circumstance wasn’t soon changed.

God help her, she couldn’t go to her audition with a bruised neck!

“Howie, enough.” Her voice was hoarse with lack of oxygen. “It’s me, Elizabeth. Your sister.” There was the chance that, in his state, he saw no reason. “Howe, you’re hurting me. Please.” She whispered.

When the words failed to break his psychosis, she did the thing she regretted not doing first. She let his wrist go and with the back of her hand, smacked his cheek. Whatever force had been behind the momentum of the hit was enough to send him back against the side of the bed. Elizabeth scrambled to her feet and darted across the room to the door.

“Bet?”

He knelt next to the bed. So like a child with his wide eyes and puckered mouth. Scared, helpless. As he had always been.

“I’m fine.” She swallowed. Deftly, she rubbed her fingers against her throat. She wasn’t one to bruise easily so she could be in the clear. “You’re all right.”

“I’m sorry.” It was a rasped croak of an apology. “I didn’t- I can’t- I-.”

The idea of his oncoming slaw of cries was enough to make her weary. It was too early in the day for all this.

“You didn’t mean to.” She assured him. “It isn’t your fault.” The nice thing to do would have been to cross the room and take him in her arms. To embrace him and flay him of any fault. He really was in the clear. But she didn’t. That had never much been her point on things. “I have to go. My audition is today. The contractors will be here in a couple hours to get started. Can you stay around and keep an eye?”

Feebly, he nodded. He rested his chin on the edge of the bed.

“I’ll be back this afternoon.” And she was gone.

The waiting room was a quiet affair. Quiet only for her, as she drowned out the incessant chatter of the other women. Though she tuned out their conversations, her eyes were keen as she assessed her competition. None were any she knew by name. Then again, she never made it a habit to remember the names of many.

Not all retained the information of how Mr. Mayer liked minimal makeup on his starlets. And not all remembered the idea of modesty. Or the detrimental mistake of wearing trousers in the face of one Louis Mayer. The only thing he hated worse than heavy makeup was a woman in pants.

Elizabeth took precarious caution to only wear pants while in the comfort of her own home. Any outing at all required either a skirt or dress with a hem that reached just at her knees. As was proper. She was also careful to only wear her eyeglasses at home. Her days were mostly spent squinting the world into vision and focus.

The girls that surrounded her wore crimson on their lips and skirts two inches above the knee. Her mother would have fainted at the sight. She herself felt close to it.

“Elizabeth Dandridge.”

The sound of her name cut like crystal through the room. It had been twenty minutes since the last potential passed through the door. Her fellow auditionees pierced fire-hawk gazes to her as she stood up. Shoulders squared and mouth beat down in a passive line, she followed Jeanine into the audition room.

It was the same ordinary set-up any other audition had. Four men behind a table. One being Mr. Louis Mayer, the head of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. Accompanying him was Saul Freeman, the director; William Rush, the producer; and Quint Joplin, the casting director. Across from them stood the male lead himself in all his splendor. Gregory Peck.

Elizabeth never much paid mind to men and the way they looked. Men were simply other people, and she had no use for them. Women who lived and breathed for the idea of marriage and baby carriages loved to watch men and look at men and talk about men. The only men Elizabeth truly concerned herself with were in the room with her. Upon first meeting Gregory, she had been starstruck by him. He was conventionally handsome, in the way most actors were. Elusive dark eyes and hair so deep in color it often appeared black. Tall and broad in frame, he all but towered over her.

“Elizabeth!” He greeted her with open arms as she crossed over to stand in front of the casting table. “You look wonderful!”

By sheer force of her will, her arms spread and she allowed him a chaste hug. A show of affection between two friends. “Hello, Gregory.” She smiled as they parted. Attention turned towards the men at the table, she broadened her smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mayer, Mr. Freeman, Mr. Rush, Mr. Joplin.” A dainty hand reached out to graciously shake each of theirs.

“Afternoon, Elizabeth.” Mr. Mayer nodded. He gestured to the space behind her and she half turned.

Gregory was sitting in a chair, an empty one beside him. Sitting? During an audition? She took the seat, crossing her ankles beneath the chair and leaving her hands folded in her lap.

“Ms. Dandridge, may I say, you were absolutely breathtaking in _Elegance of First Contact_.” Mr. Freeman started out. Elizabeth only smiled tersely in response. “For that to have been your very first role, and as a lead…you blew all expectations out of the water. I do expect that one day you’ll surpass the names of Joan and Bette.”

To hear someone else say what she already believed was enough to bring a light warmth to the apples of her cheeks. Alas, Elizabeth knew all the rules. Frontward, backward, side-to-side, she knew them. A woman was never stellar on her own.

“Oh, thank you so much.” She gushed before setting her sight on Gregory. “However, I don’t believe I would have done half so well without Gregory. He was always so helpful when I was confused or turned around. All the credit for film’s success should be his.” The lie came out sweet as sugar, though it burned bitter on her tongue.

It was true: Gregory had saved her skin on several occasions while filming _Elegance_ , but he wasn’t the sole reason the film shone. Elizabeth knew that no matter her lead opposite, she would rise above and beyond expectations each time. But women were never stellar on their own.

“I told ya, she’s just a doll, isn’t she?” Mr. Mayer grinned at his companions. “A real knockout, watch.” He told them. When he set his gaze on her, she stiffened her composure. “Elizabeth, honey, we’re gonna switch it up and use the train scene as the audition piece for you today. I know that’s not what Paul said to prepare for, so we’ve got a script up here.” He motioned to the thick stack of paper she had originally missed on her first look-over.

The train scene. Which explained the chairs. Train…train…ah, yes. Vivian and Dale were travelling out of town to investigate the strange disappearance of Vivian’s cousin. A lead that took them into Montauk and an old desolate house with an odd history.

Mr. Rush picked up the script and offered it to her.

“No, thank you.” She shook her head. “I memorized the entire script. Just in case.” A habit she refused to cut ties with. While _Elegance_ had been her first role, it hadn’t been her first audition. That had been the disastrous affair where she had memorized the wrong scene for the audition and wound up looking a complete fool.

To save face for any future issues, she stuck to learning entire scripts prior to auditions.

“What did I say?” Mr. Mayer smirked at Rush. “An ace, huh?”

“Shall we?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in question.

Mr. Mayer spread his hands. _By all means_.

She made herself comfortable. She and Gregory both turned their chairs to face one another. She required nothing to delve into character. No moment of still silence or an exhaled breath of nervous relief. All she had to do was dive in.

The abyssal gaze of her eyes locked onto Gregory’s as she adjusted her posture to appear as if she were truly on a train. Gregory mirrored her action.

“What do you believe we’ll find in Montauk, Mr. Vernon?” Though it tried, her voice didn’t stagger over the _r_ letter. 

“Answers, I hope.” He replied callously.

Elizabeth worked a dismayed frown as the skin of Vivian Burbank encased her. “Why, yes, I should hope as well.” She shook her head at his character’s naivete. “I meant, do you think the right answers await us or only more questions?”

As the scene progressed on, she felt it. The tightly wound lock-in. The moment when she knew the role was hers. The four men on the other side of the casting table so enamored with her performance and her vibrant chemistry that they knew in their hearts she was the right pick for the role. There was no other sense in finishing the auditions. No one would act Vivian Burbank with quite the tenacity or fervor that she herself managed.

They could try, but they would fail.

The finale of the scene approached. A tender moment where her character would have to display some tensioned level of physical affection against Gregory’s. The boundaries of physicality remained forever on the list of things Elizabeth was poor at. But for this, for her dream and her lifeline, heaven above could she put on a show.

Although the movement was stiff, she was confident it hadn’t deterred the solidity of her fantastic audition. She reached, slow and steady, and placed her hand on the curve of Gregory’s knee. Her fingers splayed against the dark material of his trousers. His own eyes burned into the place her hand rested. Symphonically in sync with one another, their gazes locked onto each other.

“Everything will turn out all right, I know it.” The whisper was by no means intended on her part. The script hadn’t called for it, and yet some part of her knew it would be delivered best in soft-toned words.

She was, as always, correct.

With those words spoken, the scene was culminated and her audition complete. She turned away from Gregory and delivered a serene smile.

“Lovely, Elizabeth. Just outstanding as always.” Mr. Mayer stood. He buttoned his suit jacket and leaned over table to take her hand. “We’ll be in contact shortly, dear.”

She nodded and rose to her feet. Not unnoticed was the sly wink Mr. Mayer gave her. A tremendous sign. She let out a breath. “Thank you so much.” To Gregory, “It was splendid to see you again, Gregory. Until next time.” He met her words with a platonic kiss to the back of her hand. And to the other men, “An honor and pleasure to meet you all. Thank you, again.”


	3. three: velvet and pearls; diamonds and gossamer

The days never passed in quite so slow a manner. The gnawing teeth of impatience ate away at her mind throughout the waking hours of the week that followed her audition. Days packed to the brim with activity and busyness, but the bustle proved an ineffective method of staving off any and all thoughts of her audition.

She had aced it. She knew that. Mr. Mayer had been thoroughly impressed with her performance. In fact, they all had been in awe of the way she shed her skin and stepped into that of Vivian Burbank. In those moments, Elizabeth Dandridge ceased to exist. There was no shellshocked veteran twin brother or hazy Texan upbringing wrought with promises of the Lord and Savior; she had only been a woman accompanied by a man in search of a missing relative, on a train to Montauk and unknown tidings afoot. The electric chemistry she created with Gregory should have been enough alone. None of the other women who auditioned had ever worked so closely with him as she had before, therefore they lacked the experience she possessed.

Elizabeth held every confidence in the world of herself that she nailed her audition and would be called and offered the role. Even if she didn’t want it (which she very much did), she wouldn’t have been able to say no.

The chances of one of the other women outperforming her was so outlandish and hysterical, she refused to entertain the notion for even a second. Then again, had she not done the same thing three years ago? Waltzed into an audition where she was the freshest meat in the room and forced herself to outshine Mr. Mayer’s frontrunner for the female lead, Judy Garland. Judy had probably felt just as sure of herself as Elizabeth did currently. And then, Elizabeth was Fiona Trace in _Elegance of First Contact_. And that was that.

Oh, lord. What if one of those overdone floozies outdid her?

She saw it all flash before her eyes. The meteoric rise of her career shot down by the lapse of that single audition. Her face only known as two hit picture leads and then small supporting roles until her contract concluded in 1950. After that…her stomach churned. What was she to do then? Return to Port Aransas, Howie in tow? The Dandridge twins, failures in their own ways, back on that strangulating piece of land.

A farmgirl turned actress turned farmgirl.

No, no. That simply would not do. Not one bit.

She would _die_ before going back to live the rest of her days there. She had never been meant to work at the nursery with her father or mend clothes like her mother (as made abundantly clear by her staunch renouncement of all needlework). Elizabeth was destined to be the biggest blessing to Hollywood’s silver screen, and nothing was going to stop her.

Never one to beg or plea, she had half the mind to ring up Mr. Mayer and lay out each reasoning as to why she was the only fit for Vivian Burbank’s character. Each piece would be laid out in excruciating detail. Even if the ploy lost her points of his good graces, he would be too overcome by her genius and strategic sighting to pay any mind to anything other than the fact she was supposed to be the female lead of _Twisted Mystic_.

“Bet, phone!”

Each tightly wound tendril of her heart constricted.

Elizabeth dropped the half-peeled banana to the counter and jetted from the kitchen. Socked feet slid against the slick floor, forcing her to shimmy to a quickened walking pace. The majority of the house was still being renovated. However, she had stuck to original flooring in most of the home. The vivacious and classic marbling was too beautiful to err away from.

Howie held the phone out, mouthing a warning with humor-stricken eyes, _Mr. Mayer_.

Oh, heavens!

She snatched the telephone from his grasp and rolled back her shoulders. Plastering a mega-watt smile that he couldn’t see, she tapered the phone against her cheek. “Hello, this is Elizabeth.” Voice the perfect mixture of sweet and polite.

“Elizabeth, this is Mr. Mayer. How are you?”

Her stomach bubbled, toes curling inside her brown socks. Had she any less composure or dignity, she would have demanded an answer to her burning question. Instead, she offered, “Perfectly well, Mr. Mayer. And yourself?”

“Fine as always. Now, before I dig in here with you, I’ve got a question.” Mouth dry, she gave a nod he wouldn’t see and said for him to ask away. “The fellow who answered the phone for you. Pray tell, Ms. Dandridge, who would that be?”

The print of her morality clause was etched forever into her memory. No romantic or intimate endeavors. A rule she found rather easy to adhere to, given she could not care less about the gooey afflictions of Cupid’s Bow. Not with the beast’s belly of her career so positioned for her taking. She had no qualms against the rule, for she found it increasingly difficult each day to imagine herself in any sort of romantic entanglement.

Her eyes flickered to Howie, who stood and watched with folded arms and expectant smile. To tell the truth, she found herself immersed in the thick sludge of shame. “My brother, Howard. I thought for sure I must have mentioned it when he relocated here in January.” She said, intentionally slowing her words. “He fought in the War and our parents though a fresh environment would do him a world of good.”

It didn’t.

If anything, he was worse off.

Mr. Mayer hummed on the other end. The noise offered neither satisfaction or otherwise of her provided- and honest- answer. The nail of her thumb found itself wedged between her teeth. She gave Howie another spared glance, exasperated that he still stared back at her.

“Well, Elizabeth, I must say-,” he began again, the nerves in her stomach doing somersaults, “we were all stricken with your performance last week. Your preparation and skill set you apart from the others. Rush and Freeman were both impressed with your familiarity of the script and the energy you created with Gregory.”

Bless whoever and whatever. Those were things she already knew. She only wanted to know if she was being offered the part.

“We’d like to extend the offer of portraying Vivian Burbank in _Twisted Mystic_ to you, Elizabeth. There was a unanimous decision that only you could fill those shoes, one which Gregory put into our heads before auditions began.”

She didn’t care that Gregory had planted the seed. People planted seeds all the time and nothing ever came from it. He may have planted the seed, but she had been the one to nurture it and make it grow.

Elizabeth grinned, the smile reaching the edges of her face. “I will accept your offer, thank you so very much, Mr. Mayer.”

It was an ending of pleasantries before she hung the phone up. Her head snapped up at Howie’s inquisitive throat-clearing. In an entirely uncommon wave of abrupt happiness, she charged and threw her arms around him.

“I got the part!”

The thin ropes of his arms cradled around her back, hoisting her in the air as their laughter echoed through the foyer.

Four was the number of times Harry’s knuckles rapped against the door leading into Franklin’s office. The door was open a sliver, a heavy-handed voice resonating through the dark wood. He couldn’t make out the general words, only the unhappy tone and the fact it wasn’t his boss speaking.

Curious as the cat in several manners, Harry pushed his way into the office.

The man seated across from Franklin wasn’t a man he had ever seen before. Imposingly built, a figure to rival Jimmy Bivins, head sleek and shining of hair. Whoever he was, Franklin wasn’t too pleased to be hosting him.

“You wanted to see me?” Harry shielded most of his body with the door.

Though the club didn’t open until six, Franklin spent most of the day holed away in his office. Harry wasn’t sure of what all the man’s day consisted of, but it required long hours on his own. Harry made it habit to arrive exactly at six each night to have an hour before performing- something his mum instilled about birds and worms- but Franklin had left a message at the hotel that Harry was needed urgently. At four in the evening. Harry had hustled his ass to the club, items haphazardly clumped in his arms still. Whatever his employer wanted, it was important.

He hoped to the heavens he wasn’t being let go.

Franklin and his guest both studied their gazes to him. He swallowed at the wonderment that his interruption was a tic on the bad side of things.

“Ah, Harry, just a minute, will you?” Franklin jerked his head back towards the hall.

He was in the midst of his agreement when the other man rose to his feet. Seeming tall in sitting, he towered once on his feet. The tailor-made suit stretched against his form and the buttons strained to remain clasped. “No need. I’m on my way out.” He shot Franklin a look Harry could only describe as venomous. “Next Thursday. You know the time and place. Don’t make me come to you.”

Franklin nodded once. “Of course.”

Harry stepped back into the hall and pushed the door further open. With his hands folded in front of his body, he waited as the man took his leave from the office. Kept his eyes trained on the floor, none too keen on making any more eye contact with the mysterious guest.

However, his plan failed as he was bid with a “Mr. Styles,” and a curt nod when the man passed him by.

He watched him walk down the hall and disappear around the corner that led back into the lounge. Harry poked his head back into the office and with Franklin’s beckoning cue, let himself in.

“Who was that?” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the hall.

Franklin rubbed the heels of his palms against his cheeks and down to the jawline. A soft groan escaped him before he answered, “Lloyd Claymont.” Harry had to inform him that he had no idea who that was. Franklin said that was probably a good thing. “I owe him some money. He helped me out when I was looking to buy this place, loaned me some cash to pay the fee. Haven’t been able to give him much more than a few bucks a month and-.”

“You’re letting me go.” Harry muttered.

It made sense. On the short ride that his train of thought took to get from Franklin’s debt and the last word Harry cut off, it made perfect sense. He had to be let go. Franklin was giving him a good piece of money each week to stand up and belt out some songs, look good for the dames to keep coming back. But his employment was becoming a hindrance on Franklin’s wallet. And his outstanding debt. The money Harry was being paid could have been going towards his loan.

It made sense.

Harry hated it but it made sense.

“No, hell no.” Franklin let out a choked laugh. He shook his head as he swiped a cigarette from the open metal tube on his desk. With it between his lips, he swiped a match and held it to the end of the cigarette. “I’d be crazier than a red Russian to let you go, Styles.” Forefinger jutted out towards Harry, he shook it every which way. “I get where you’re twisted, makes sense, I guess. But you’re bringing in the bills now. Those skirts keep blabbering about you to their friends. Business is booming with you. Better for me, actually. I only called ya in early ‘cause I got this call from one of those production studios down the valley.”

The picture production studios. All nestled in the same valley neck, burrowed tight together to keep their intimate peace with only themselves. It was so easy to distinguish those types from, well, anyone else. Glossy, inhumanely perfect looks and clothes straight off the ship from all the fashion houses abroad. They all poured out of that valley likes dolls from the factory. Shaped and molded to be whatever their paychecks demanded from them. Harry found it impossible to tell whether they had any real personality to them at all or if they were simply clay animations of film characters. Puppets on strings, mastered by Paramount, Fox, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, or whoever printed the paystub.

“They offerin’ ya a part?” Harry grinned in the assurance he wasn’t losing his job. And maybe a little at the mental picture his brain knitted together of Franklin trying to memorize lines and being posh and classic. As far as attitudes were concerned, his boss was the least Hollywood person he knew. Except maybe himself.

Franklin pulled the cigarette from his mouth and dipped the ash into a silver tray. The corner of his mouth tugged up in a weak smile. Harry’s outlandish ability to make light in any situation was never a failure, this time included. He possessed the means of bringing sunshine on even the stormiest of days, his own smile and laughter infectious enough to alight the same reaction from any near him. The flip side to this coin was that his darkness was never his own. Where his happiness flooded, his sorrow drowned out. It was implausible to see him downtrodden or wrathful without those emotions bleeding into whoever came into contact with him. His sharing was not always so caring.

“’Fraid not.” The white paper tube dangled between his fore and middle fingers. Wisps of bitter scented smoke clouded from the sizzling end. “Something a lot better for us.” Harry had to ask what was better than one of them becoming rich and famous, all for the expense of practically selling their soul to the Devil. His comment earned a wide-toothed smile. “Some low-shot down at MGM called me and asked me if I was all right hosting a little…get together tomorrow night.”

The vague request left an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of Harry’s stomach. Butterflies frenzied in a cage, eager to escape and make their home inside his body. And for what reason? The pale hope in the off chance one of those Hollywood folks took a shine to his voice? He shifted in his seat in a failed attempt to shake the feeling.

“Said something about some stars in a new production needing a place to get together and we came high on the recommendations. _You_ came high on the recommendations, if I’m being honest.”

When he swallowed, he felt his tongue go down with the saliva. He was going to perform, like any other night. And yet, the added hysteria that people from down the valley would be there to hear his voice. A light at the end of an ever-winding tunnel of his dream. The reality that all he wanted was approaching faster than he had prepared himself for. Did the prospect of fame and fortune hurtle this swiftly to everyone or was he simply lucky?

Harry had never been one to believe in the mantra of Lady Luck. There was no such thing. The world was constructed on a predestined path. Each person had their ways and curves to follow and end up at the destination they were meant for. Every moment of a person’s life pre-planned by whatever force or being controlled the game of life. Luck never crossed his mind until the war.

Face first in the hell of battle. Gun in his hand. Dirt and blood on his face. Friends, foes, strangers falling and fighting all around him. None of that a plan, none of it on the eternal paved walkway. Luck came time and time again. Each day as he narrowly skimmed the cold hands of Death herself and still had a beating heart, air in his lungs. When he left only as the war ended and returned home, able-bodied, able-minded. The only recollection of his years on the battlefield his rusted memories and the occasional ringing in his ears.

He was lucky.

Maybe not just in that aspect either.

“What do you say?” Franklin’s cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the tanged substance. “You up for a night with the stars tomorrow?”

He would have been a fool to say no.

The world was created with stardust. Confetti rainbows and slivers of sunshine. It was all pinks, yellows, lavenders, and spring greens. Daisies and pink roses. It was all good things. Made only better by the perked and bright cheery blossoms of the once-doomed hydrangea.

“See, all you needed was a bit of love and care to make you well again.” Elizabeth murmured. The pad of her forefinger licked frighteningly slow over the vivacious purple petals. Hydrangeas were far from her favorite flower. She had always preferred the velvet soft caress of peonies above all else. If care was the main category, she went towards orchids each time. That thinly veiled masochist piece of her adored the strenuous job of creating life of an orchid.

The plant was tenacious and difficult at best. Orchids possessed a resolute thirst for life she saw in herself. Both required the utmost dedication to result in their blossoming upheld only by their own unyielding regiments. She with her dictation classes and self-dance lessons and relentless attendance to acting lessons. The flower and its desire for sunlight from the rising sun only and nitpicked temperatures to thrive and monthly feedings. Each demanded high skill and discipline. Elizabeth took pride in the fact that her father, a professional gardener, had no luck in breathing life into the orchids and she had excelled.

Discipline was her mastery and with it, she became distinguished in almost all she set out to do.

“Ain’t seen ya with a plant in a bit.”

She spun around, the water in the metal can sloshing with her movement. Howie loomed over the balcony of the second floor, arms folded over the gold rail. “I water the plant every day, Howard.”

He shrugged before pushing off the rail. Composure upright, she took in his appearance. Pressed dark slacks, dark colored shirt, and boots. Clean-shaven face and fixed hair. Save for the ever-present dark shadows that haunted his eyes, he looked a picture of his past.

“Where are you off to?” Her back to him once more, she tilted the mouth of the watering can into the edge of the flowerpot. Just the way she had been taught as a child. Watering the plant directly atop the blossoms weighed them down and the delicate petals of a hydrangea were no exception. The water needed to be directly put in the soil.

“I do still got a job, Bet. Foreman said he’d give me one more chance to pull myself together.” She only hoped he made it count. His steps thundered down the stairs and she listened as the closet door was pulled open. “I’ll be back early this evening. We could drive into town and get supper.” He suggested, kicking the door shut.

She relented her watering and turned in time to see him shrug on his jacket. It wasn’t often that the two Dandridge twins spent an extended amount of time together. The longest period perhaps those months spent inside their mother’s womb. From the time of their birth, they were separable by ease with their conflicting natures and clashing ideals. Even so, a dinner with him didn’t burn the tip of her tongue. It sounded…nice. And so it panged her heart to say, “I wish we could, but I’ve got plans tonight.”

It didn’t take a genius to know certain things about her. Everyone knew she kept to herself and didn’t whistle dixie with nights on the town with girls or deplete energy on men. Elizabeth hardly made plans that weren’t in exact correlation to her work. And no part of her job at the current moment included plans during the moonlight hours.

“Plans?” Howie cackled. “Ya ain’t gotta lie to get outta hangin’ with me, Bet.”

Her nostrils flared out with a huffed breath. “I’m not lying. A couple people from the main cast of _Twisted Mystic_ are getting together tonight. Gregory’s coming by at six-forty-five to pick me up.”

“A date. Yer going on a date.” Her annoyance only grew with the way his eyes were alight. She had never once in her life been on a date. She found no need for it. She simply saw no plausible explanation for wasting time on men and romance when her career was the true love of her heart.

“No, it isn’t a date. I just told you that several other people will be there. Gregory offered to pick me up is all.”

Howie nodded silently, a sly grin etched onto his mouth. “Sure. I’ll find the two of ya parked on some little hill, windows all steamed and-.”

“Howard!” She held her hands up. “Don’t be foul.”

The boom of his laugh bounced off the walls and reverberated through her ears. All a joke. Of course, the mere thought of her having a love life was comical to him. To be fair, it was to her as well. She couldn’t imagine experiencing a pull toward someone so strong it overpowered her desire of her dream.

That simply would not ever happen.

In a handful of steps, he was at the door and swinging it open. Orange morning rays flooded into the foyer and washed it over in streaks of tangerine gold. “At least lemme know where yer goin’. In case I gotta come rescue ya.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. In part for his play at being a protective brother when it was a universal truth that she had always been the one to save him. And for the preposterous notion that she would need to be saved. As if she would ever be in the position for rescuing. She would never put herself in a place where a situation as such could form.

It didn’t stop her, however, from plying him with the name of the lounge she was being whisked off to; “The Midnight Lounge. Everyone has perfectly dandy things to say about it.”

Howie nodded, and on his way out the door, she almost missed the soured expression on his face.

For the most part, Franklin proved to be an easy-going employer. He didn’t ask much of Harry, only that he sing his songs each night, do that part well, and look nice enough to keep the broads on their toes. He did it all with ease every time he stepped on the stage.

The night ahead would be no different. In his eyes, at least.

Franklin was beside himself with the worry and stress of having a pick of Hollywood’s most elite in his joint. It wasn’t that the Midnight Lounge was unpopular, it only drew the crowd of mere mortals. The gods themselves stuck to their own and preferred to inhabit clubs of more prestige. If the night went well, as they both hoped it would, the stars would spread the word about Hampton Boulevard’s secret paradise. And after that…the possibilities were endless.

“You look a dreamboat, Styles. Quit eying yourself.”

Wally was positioned up against the jamb of Harry’s dressing room- a room, for lack of a better term, which only had a four-bulb mirror and a place to keep his things until his shift was through. But, a room all for himself nonetheless. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Harry gave himself one last appreciative look before tugging the lapels of his suit jacket. Franklin paid him a handsome sum of money for performing and while a good chunk of it was going to renting his room at the Beverly Hills (he was receiving a sizable discount as a long-term resident), Harry wasn’t immune to a good fashion sense. All performers had their quirks and special things. His so happened to be clothes. He enjoyed looking good and he preferred to do so in high quality apparel. Not just any apparel, he liked vibrancy and ingenuity, to dress in a way others didn’t.

The reason heavy rings adorned his digits and a pearl necklace rested at the base of his throat. Matched only tonight by a new blue velvet suit and silk white blouse with a pussycat bow. Some called his sense of fashion eccentric or flamboyant. All he knew was that he liked it and found comfort in it.

Ringed fingers raked through his curls as he spun to face Wally in a dramatic fashion. “Good enough for the stars?” He asked, outstretching his arms. Never before had he doubted his own physical attractiveness. He was handsome, he knew that. But to be faced with the stars of the golden screen, people who lived to be beautiful and elegant, he only wanted to square them with his best effort.

“Like I said, you’re a dish.” Wally shook his head. “Frank wants a word with you before they get here. He’s at the bar.” On their way out of the room, he also informed him that their boss had been nursing the same glass of water for the past thirty minutes.

He was still at the bar, hands curved around a perspiring glass of water, ice cubes long melted away to fill the glass just a smidge more. Wally took his spot back behind the bar to make sure all the other glasses were in pristine and sparkling condition. As Harry slid onto the stool beside Franklin, he clapped his hand against the man’s shoulder.

“What’s buzzin’, cousin?” Harry leaned his head down to sneak a glance.

Franklin’s head lifted but he kept his gaze away from Harry’s. “Lloyd Claymont decided tonight would be a good night for him to hear the lounge singer who was generatin’ such a raucous around town.”

A snow globe knocked off the table’s edge, all Harry’s hopes for the night shattered. Glimpses of what could have been became jagged crystal shards in his mind, falling away into dust. He tapped his hand against the bar twice and gestured between his body and Franklin’s.

Franklin muttered that Lloyd and two of his lackeys were due to arrive any minute. Before, after, or at precisely the same time as the gaggle of Hollywood elite. The words froze over in Harry’s ears as Wally supplied them both with full tumbler glasses of pure Scotch. There was no hesitation in either man as they tipped the drinks down the hatch.

Fiery liquid jettisoned down his throat and watered his eyes. Igniting an anxiety he hadn’t felt in a few weeks. Not since his first performance. The night was supposed to go well, smooth and dandy. This news halted that train on the bridge. Harry didn’t know much about Lloyd Claymont, only that Franklin owed him a good sum of money and he didn’t seem the type to have a good side. Or a forgiving one, for that matter.

“It’ll all go down without a hitch, boss. I got us covered.” Harry told him. Perhaps the words of assurance were more for him than his boss. Either way, Franklin gave him a nod and slight smile. If Harry believed it would be okay, then there was no need to worry. That pearled smile dare not ever accompany a lie. Nothing but the truth fell from strawberry lips.

“You’re a good man, Styles. Righteous performer and a hell of a guy.” Franklin told him. When his eyes diverted to the clock overhead the display of rum, Harry’s trailed behind. Six-fifty.

Harry looked out at the lounge. A few people here and there. Most some skirts sneaking not-so-subtle glances of him.

Harry dismissed himself to prepare for the night ahead. Having already run through his vocal stretches and chords, he was in most senses, ready to go. The house band already set up and awaiting his cues. Although there were stairs on either side of the stage, he took the short route and hopped up the platform. His fingers were deft in their movements, used to the routine of checking the microphone and situating the stand to his liking.

In was in the midst of his personal duties that the door swung open. Sherbet sunset light soared and was quickly drowned out by three menacing figures. He squinted in the light and raised his hand to cover his eyes. Claymont and his crew. He shook his head and went back to work, eager to avert his eyes from the calamity Lloyd Claymont was sure to bring upon them.

Microphone handled and the stand centerstage, Harry turned his back to the growing crowd and met the expectations of his band.

“You look nervous.” Adam pointed out. “What’s got your britches in a bundle?”

Sarah reminded him that not only was Lloyd Claymont front and center in their audience, the main cast of a soon-to-be-filmed Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film would be in the house. No one was quite sure who the cast consisted of, as the studio liaison hadn’t provided Franklin with names, but they would no doubt be some of the more well-known stars.

“M’not fretting it.” Harry waved his hand. “We’ll be stellar.” As it always did, as was the power of Harry Styles, his picturesque smile assuaged whatever tensions the band held on their shoulders. “We’ll knock ‘em out, yeah?”

They could only agree.

It began like this: a slow and thrumming build-up of the drums, accompanied by the haunting melody of the bass, and the magnetic entry of the piano keys. On the fourth combined note of all the instruments, he spun on his heel and grabbed the mic stand with both hands, sliding towards it and pulling it flush against his person.

The words flowed through him, the way they had his entire life. He never gave a second thought when singing. It was first nature to him, rivaled only by the compulsory need to breathe. To him, singing and breathing were one in the same. He needed both to survive.

The shred of light that flooded from the once again open door drew his gaze away from the stage lights. At first, there was only evening light. Hues of goldenrod and baby pink before the first walked through the door. They filed in, ducks in their impeccable, gorgeous row. Each somehow more picture-perfect than the one before. The butterflies that took residence in his stomach flurried at the arrival of these earthen gods. Somehow human and somehow so far from it. In their glittering jewels that would stun even a king, clothes of silk and smiles of heaven. 

Still, as he crooned, he was unable to tear his eyes from them. The group of them, seven or ten, perhaps more, showed to a table not far from the stage, middle of the lounge room. Sitting themselves with an air of refined elegance it surely couldn’t be taught. His own very oxygen burned in his lungs, seared his veins as they settled.

Because, when they settled, he saw _her_.

It was all a misstep, unintentional lies. His thoughts before of them being gods. For how could they be gods when a creature so above them hung in their midst? What being found itself elevated above the gods?

Hair the color of copper, fashioned into those rolls of victory he’d never once given a second thought to. The gems on her dress winked at him, beckoning and demanding each morsel of his attention. He was happy to oblige. There was no turning away from her. The divinity of all creation not fifty feet from him. Too far to make out any features, only fire hair and inhuman beauty.

His breath caught in his throat and whatever lyric was meant to come next, didn’t. There he stood, on that stage, the words of a song he knew in his heart choked out by the vision of a woman too far away. His mouth slack open, eyes singed by the bright of the lights, he was frozen in that spot.

His unexpected silence brought all eyes to him. And in the fashion he hadn’t hoped for, her head turned and her eyes settled on him.

“I think someone likes you.” Paulette nodded her head in the direction of the stage.

Elizabeth tore her attention away from Bill and instead focused it on the singer. She did not believe in fate or destiny or anything of the sort. All she knew was that the lounge singer had quit his tune and had his sights on her. 

Her.

Tongue suddenly heavy and dry in her mouth, she swallowed. He was looking at her, staring. In a manner no other man had before. Sure, men had admired her before. She was striking, she knew that, but this…she felt had. Made. Seen in a way she had never experienced. The smile that wormed its way against her lips was involuntary and she felt scandalous when she didn’t force it away.

Whatever magic her piece of generosity possessed, it was enough to kickstart his crooning once more. But not before his face lit with a smile so bright it rivaled the sun. She squared her shoulders and turned back to Bill.

His words floated in one ear and out the other. All she heard was the soft melody the lounge singer offered her. No, them. He wasn’t singing for her. He was singing for the entirety of the club, as was his job. Try as she might to pay close attention to Bill’s anecdote, her mind was alive.

He had been looking at her. _Her_. Something about _her_ garnered enough of his attention that he forgot his lyrics.

So, he was the singer that Peggy had been so hung up on. English and handsome as the devil. The second part was certainly true. Elizabeth’s seat was too far from the stage for her to admire him properly, but the chestnut curls and dazzled smile were enough for her to pass a judgment.

Her eyes flickered around the room. It was a nice lounge, much more respectable than the ones she often found herself hauling Howie from. All muted blacks and daring reds, dashes of navy and specks of white to add flesh. Low-hanging golden chandeliers and a stocked bar that she hoped to heaven served iced tea. Her only qualm was the white carpet floor, a little gauche for her, but to each their own.

When her eyes landed on a familiar face, her stomach lurched. Even more so when she realized he was staring back at her.

Even in his absence, her brother’s mistakes haunted her.

“Elizabeth, are you all right?” Gregory’s hand slid atop her wrist.

She met his stare, startled to find utter sincerity written all over his face. “Oh, yes. Quite so, thank you.” Her smile was terse and disquieting, tight enough that its four second lifespan sent dull aches to her cheekbones. “Excuse me, I do need to powder my nose.”

As tempted as she was to flee the lounge, she couldn’t. This was her night for celebration. She was going to be a lead in a major picture for the third time. An impressive feat considering this was her third year with the studio. Running out would make her seem impulsive and immature and God knows what else. No, she had to stay composed and perfunctory. Her journey to the ladies’ room was uneventful in itself. Once inside, she locked the door and huddled herself over the porcelain sink.

How entirely unbecoming of her. Lurched over the sink in a night lounge, hiding from someone who wasn’t even her problem.

_He’s Howie’s problem. Which makes him your problem._

The dastardly voice that served to be her conscious was right. Howie was her ward as of late and any problem of his directly became her own. If he got himself into deep trouble, it would stain her beyond repair. She could kiss all her dreams goodbye if that were to occur.

Elizabeth pulled herself upright. Lloyd Claymont could be dealt with. Not that night, but soon. Then, then entire Howie mess would be cleaned, and all would be dandy. Yes, that sounded positively perfect to her. She looked in the mirror and greeted herself with a glistened smile. Hair still in place, makeup not a smudge in sight. She looked the same as she had upon leaving her house earlier. The only notable difference the flush of her cheeks. That could be chalked over to excitement if need be. She adjusted the sleeves of her dress and went on her way.

Almost as soon as she was out of the restroom, she was faced with her reason for hiding there in the first place. “Ms. Dandridge, how nice to see you again.”

She didn’t fancy herself afraid or intimidated by him as a person. Only of the threat he posed to her career. Possibly her brother as well but she hadn’t yet decided on that one.

“Mr...Claymont, I believe?” She clasped her hands in front of her body. “Good evening.”

“Having a nice time?” He inquired. His eyes were blue, watery and beady, but blue. “I didn’t take you for the gal who frequented clubs.”

She looked behind him and was relieved to find no one from her table had taken notice of her predicament. When she returned her attention to Claymont, her gaze was defiant and sturdy. “I don’t. Is there something I can help you with? I do need to return to my friends.”

It wasn’t often she found herself in the headspace to be crass or unkind. Not, then, with people who weren’t her family. Howie was usually the victim of her sheltered unkindness, but never without reason. Elizabeth worked tirelessly to appear at all times a demure and mild young woman. Burying the pieces of her that society had no need for took time and relentless effort. And it did not always work.

“Your brother-.”

“I am not. If you have business with Howard, I suggest you take it up with him. Now, if you’ll excuse me-.”

She made the move to pass by him and he grabbed her by the crook of the elbow. He pushed her back several steps, maneuvering to stand between her and any hope of exit. The mass of his body shielded her from signaling for any sign of rescue.

Rescue. As if she had ever needed such a thing before.

“He owes me money. If I don’t get what I’m owed, I’ll break his kneecaps. Better yet, I’ll break yours.”

Was he…threatening her?

Goddamn her miserable excuse for a brother.

She eyed his hand around her before jerked away from him. He was lucky the fabric didn’t rip. Gossamer was a delicate material. She palmed over the butterfly sleeve that he had wrinkled. “What, pray tell, is the sum of his debt?”

“Five thousand. And some change.”

Holy mackerel. Five thousand dollars? What in the high heavens had Howie been doing?

She nodded, making a mental note of the sum. “Mr. Claymont, rest assured you will receive the money you’re owed. But heed me on this, if you _ever_ lay a hand on me again, I’ll cut it off.” She sidestepped away from him, once again in the clear to leave. Her rule of not drinking seemed flimsy at the moment, but she would hold fast. A water would have to do. “Now, have a lovely rest of your evening and please do well not to ruin mine.”

With that, she took her leave of the hall. Ice shards percolated down her spine with each step away from him. She prayed he didn’t follow after her, threatening to do worse than break her kneecaps at her insinuation of maiming him. But no man would ever threaten her or put hands on her without consent. Any man who thought otherwise had a sick twist coming.

She made it safely to the bar and asked the tender for a water with little to no ice.

“All right there, love?”

The English accent thawed out whatever ice had stuck. She lifted her head, curious to put a permanent face and name to the singer.

Gorgeous.

She’d never come across a man worthy of the word before. But he was. Perhaps too deserving of the word for anyone’s good, especially her own. Tousled curls the color of chocolate that framed a sweet and yet deviled face. Supple strawberry lips that curved into a candied smile. Dimples to knock the breath from her lungs.

“Hunky dory. Should I be otherwise?” She asked as the tender handed her the full glass of water. She thanked him with a sweet, close-lipped smiled before looking once again at the singer.

Each time her eyes fell on his face, she was blinded by him. Features only accelerated by his accent, charming singing voice, and dolloped smile. And the suit…blue velvet snug against a tall, filled frame.

Elizabeth rarely found herself appreciating the beauty of men but his was so bold, it was hard to do otherwise.

“I just saw ya cornered by Mr. Claymont and only wanted to make sure he wasn’t giving ya a hard time or something…”

Sweet Lord in the sky.

Hand still curled around her water glass, she leaned her hip against the bar stool. “He was only asking after my dress is all.” The lie didn’t tumble or somersault. It made its pretty way from her mouth, delivered just as simply as if she had made a comment on the weather. No one needed to know about Howie’s affliction with alcohol or his entanglement with Lloyd Claymont.

The English singer took a step back. For the very first time, she became self-conscious of her appearance as he raked her over. He was slow with the precaution, eyes dancing over every inch of the dress and her appearance before he finally met her gaze once more.

Green. His eyes were green. Evergreen like mountain trees. Emeralds nestled into a person. She had never much cared for that shade before that moment.

“It is a very lovely dress. Gossamer, if I’m not mistaken?”

The next smile she gave was very genuine. “Yes, it is. And your suit, it’s very dashing.”

Having never flirted with real intention before, she wasn’t quite sure that it was what she was doing. She had a sinking feeling, though, that it was. And she didn’t mind it.

“Wait, wait, hold up a second, doll.” He held up a hand, forefinger extended. Several rings littered his fingers and with his arm raised, jet black ink became exposed in the shadows of his sleeves. Tattoos.

Velvet. Pearls. Rings and tattoos. Heaven help her.

“I swear, I’ve seen ya before. I know it…”

It was darling, the way his nose scrunched in persistent thought. The knuckles of his raised fist embedded between pearly white teeth. His eyes went bright with discovery and his hand extended to her.

“The poster girl!” He grinned, mad with it. “You and him,” he jabbed his thumb towards the back of Gregory’s chair, “did a film together, yeah? _Elegance_ of something or ‘nother, right?”

She couldn’t help but match his grin. She laughed quietly, nodding her head. “ _Elegance of First Contact_ , yes. Have you seen it?”

He shook his head, mouth pulling down into a pouted frown. Even that he made beautiful. “’Fraid not. I saw ya on a poster a few weeks back. I was in Paris when it came out. Bet you were an ace, though. I can tell you’re damn good.”

Heat floods her cheeks. Not entirely due to his crude language. Compliments came to her and they came often, but never in such blatant and shocking candor. It would have been a lie to say it wasn’t a relief.

“Thank you.” Her head didn’t duck with the praise as she normally would show for. Modesty, and all that. “Oh, if you were in Paris, you must know some French!” Her strict daily regiments didn’t allow for the process of learning a new language. It was too tedious, and she had so much under her belt already. If she had to choose one to learn, it would have been French.

He chuckled, eyes sparkling. There were too many places for her eyes to wander. The crevices his smile carved in his cheeks, the pretty teeth, those mystical eyes, the little mole below his lip.

“Only a little. There wasn’t much time to become proficient, what with the fighting and the bombs and what not.”

His lighthearted revelation hit her square in the chest. A soldier. He’d been in war. That face, that voice? On the fronts of battle? It couldn’t be. And how was it that Howie turned into the shell of himself while this man- whoever he was- remained light and jovial? Questions swirled in her head like fog and she found herself wanting to know anything he would allow her.

“Holy mackerel,” she groaned, covering her mouth, “I’m such a yuck!” She shook her head at the faux pas. What a dunce she was. “Of course, you were there for the war. How foolish of me, I’m so sorry.” She fought the urge to cover her eyes. She dropped her hand and made both cradle her glass. “Oh, dear. Thank you for your service. Truly.”

“Puis-je avoir votre nom?” He tucked one of his curls behind his ear.

Elizabeth knew two phrases in French. Bonjour and au revoir. Her limited knowledge began and ended there. It was difficult enough to relearn her entire vernacular with the new way of speaking. She could only imagine having to learn a whole new language.

She blinked up at him. Words lost as she had no clue what he had said. “I…What does that mean?”

He had a wolf’s smile. “Means I don’t know your name, honey.”

Her lips rolled in on themselves before they popped back out. “It’s Elizabeth. Elizabeth Dandridge.”

He reached, taking her hand in his. It was instinct, the way her fingers curved over his. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her knuckles. “Well, Elizabeth Dandridge, it’s my pleasure to meet you. I’m Harry Styles.”

A man with a name like that couldn’t be good for her.

Time, a slippery piece of an illusion, was never to be mastered. And in its true form, it got away from her. The hours bled into one another. Seven became eight, eight became nine and so forth.

Every twenty minutes, she excused herself from her table and joined Harry Styles, lounge singer, at the bar for conversation. His breaks between sets were ten minutes and in those intervals, she learned a lot about him. He grew up in a little town called Holmes Chapel; an older sister with whom he was close; his body was decorated with over fifty tattoos; most of his wartime service was spent in Paris; he was decent at playing guitar and passionate about his career as a singer.

It took three of his breaks before she allowed the conversation to deter to herself. When it did, she was careful to provide only the most pristine of facts. Her breakout films, _The Elegance of First Contact_ and _Flight Star_ ; the relocation from Texas to California three years ago; the dedication to her job; Howie’s status as her current roommate and his own time in the war. Nothing about his shellshock induced nightmares. Or his money problem.

“What do ya do in your free time, love? Surely ya don’t just think about work when you’re not there.”

She propped her chin on the base of her palm, elbow dug into the bar. It wasn’t a very ladylike position, but it wasn’t exactly improper either. “I like flowers.” She admitted quietly. His eyebrows raised as he repeated her words. “My father owns a nursery and I liked helping him with the plants more than I did my mother with the clothes.”

“You have a favorite?” He inquired.

“To grow or to admire?”

“Both.” The hunger was evident. He wanted to know her as much as she did him.

There was no hesitation. She knew her answers. “I like peonies, in general. The shell pink ones. But, as for growing, I prefer orchids.” _Why_ , he asked. He hung on her words as she explained the duality of the orchid and herself. The almost preposterous level of care an orchid needed to thrive; how she herself needed that as well to rise to her occasion in Hollywood. “This is only going to be my third picture, but they all say I’m to be the next Joan or Bette.”

“No shit?” Harry breathed.

“Elizabeth?”

She found herself staring at Gregory. She blinked and looked at the table they had once occupied. It was empty. Nothing left but empty glasses.

“Did you want a ride home?” Gregory nodded towards the double doors of the entrance.

The clock chimed. Once, twice, three…eleven times. Eleven! How late, she was never out that late. She had to go home immediately.

“Oh, gracious, yes.” She smiled at Gregory. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was. Yes, my shawl and my purse and then I’m ready.”

Gregory waved and told her he would pull the car to the front of the building for her. She and Harry both watched him go. Once he was out the doors, she pulled herself to her feet, Harry immediately following her suit.

“It was so nice to meet you, Harry. And you, you’ve got a beautiful voice. Thank you for sharing it with us tonight.” She made her way to the entrance, where her purse and shawl hung on a hook.

Harry was right there. He was delicate in plucking her shawl from the hook and draping it over her shoulders. “The pleasure was all mine. I’ll walk you out?”

The question. She should have said no. Ended it there. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to. All she did was nod.

He handed her the small handbag and led her to the doors. They stood there, an inch apart, shoulders close to brushing as they waited for Gregory. Gregory who seemed to be taking his dear time. Just when Elizabeth had half the mind to wait on the sidewalk for him to escape the suffocating tension Harry exuded, the headlights swung into view. Gregory’s sky blue car pulled up, waiting for her to burst from the doors and be free of whatever strange person had inhabited her body inside the Midnight Lounge.

For, surely, that had been the case. Right? Elizabeth Dandridge wasn’t the type to spend all night on the heels of the words of a club singer. To find herself flustered and blushing at compliments and sweet words. Dimpled smiles and evergreen eyes. A specter of some khaki wacky had taken over her body for the evening. That was the only explanation she could muster.

“Well, I should-.” She turned to bid him farewell once more; the nauseas pit of her stomach growing each second at the thought of never seeing him again. She would never go back to the lounge of her own volition. Not alone and certainly not for a man.

“Wait,” his own heed cut off her goodbye, “could I take you for lunch sometime?”

Lunch? Lunch. Just a lunch. Nothing more. Lunch was a better option than dinner. She would have had to decline dinner.

“I-lunch?” Were the words that made their way out of her constricted throat. He nodded twice. “Sure, yes.” She murmured. “That would be sweet.”

His next words shouldn’t have shocked her so still. She should have anticipated them from the eager way he had absorbed her time and words all night. “Tomorrow, then?”

And yet, shock her they did. He was brutally forward and candid. She swallowed, eyes still wide with the surprise of his earnest. “All right, tomorrow, if you’d like.” His grin was impossible to not mirror with her own. She gave him her address and he swore not to forget it.

“Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

Her name, decadent cake frosting from his lips.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

His, a promise of something foreign and uncharted on her own.

He held the door open for her and waited until she slid into the passenger of Gregory’s car. She trained her eyes on the road ahead, relentless in the effort to not look back for one last look at him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Gregory shake his head. “Careful, Elizabeth. You know the rules.”

The rules. The rule. The morality clause. She knew it well, just as she knew every other piece of her contract. A contract that hadn’t once crossed her mind in the time she spent talking to Harry. Because, for once, her career hadn’t been at the forefront of her mind. 

She leaned back against the seat. “They say absolutely nothing about making new friends.” She reminded him.

That’s all Harry was, would be. A friend. A devastatingly handsome friend who made her insides feel like Jell-O Surprise.

Gregory snorted. “If you don’t watch yourself, a friend can turn into more than impossibly quick. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” He spoke it in a way she had to wonder if he had been reprimanded for something akin to it before. The studio could prevent a relationship, but not feelings. Had he suffered some heart-wrenching loss on account of his contract?

Was that what lay ahead for her if she continued down this path? No. No, it was not. Because Harry was only a friend. He would only ever be a friend.


	4. four: constellations of the flesh

In his own modestly humble opinion, Harry was not a suave Casanova. Women didn’t fall at his feet with praise, beckoned only at his smile. They didn’t worship him at the altar of their beds or conform themselves to his every wish and whim. He was, after all, only sure that kind of fella existed in films. And he gave women more credit than most.

He knew better than to underestimate any woman on any day. Their minds melting pots of ideas, quick wit, and unimaginable depth. More than pretty faces and swished skirts, hair ribbon and floral pattern dresses. Perhaps he was a radical in that sense, in giving women the credit they were due. In his stubborn belief they were meant for more than an apron in the kitchen three times a day and two and a half children.

There were women all over who stepped up during the war and did their part. Who went to the factories while their men were storming cities and shores. Women who played baseball as a source of entertainment for their country. Even now, after the war, some remained at work. Schoolteachers and secretaries, nurses and phone operators. Harry only believed that all jobs available to men should be an option for women as well.

So, no, Harry did not see himself as the hero of a romance picture. Casanova he was not, he couldn’t lie and completely dismiss his way with women. They liked them and on occasion, he liked them back. He’d never had a serious relationship to the point he considered marriage an option, or even thought of saying those three words. He appreciated the fine art of womanhood and embraced willingly the daunting charm of it all.

But to love a woman was to subject yourself to a lifetime of heartache and misery. Love was the steepest of all bluffs, the sweetest of candies, the sharpest of knives. He wasn’t yet ready to impale himself.

At least, not until he saw her.

_ Elizabeth Dandridge. _

Her name from her own lips a spiral of golden fresh honey. As soon as it fell from her lips, he saw it in flashing lights. Curved letters forming the name of a goddess, enchantress, woman, surrounded by dusted pearl bulb lights. A future Queen of Hollywood.  _ The _ future Queen of Hollywood.

Her name from his own lips a cascade of fortune and good tiding. The promise of something good and perfect and warm. A name thousands of other women had, but they didn’t wear it quite so well as she. 

Sleep escaped him that night as his mind ran rampant with the picture of her. One always so attached to his night’s rest, he didn’t mind so long as her face glowed behind his eyes. Her name a prayer he bespoke over and over, tongue failing to grasp in the way hers had. Perhaps all words just sounded better from her mouth.

He would believe that to be true. She could have cursed him to Hell, and he would have fallen to his knees in thanks.

All his experience, all his knowledge came to an abrupt disappearance in her wake. He bumbled and staggered, flushed and grew warm in her presence. Her divine existence vexed him, put a spell on him, left a curse only she could cure with her words and delicate smiles. She was the illness and the medicine all at once.

Elizabeth Dandridge, in that dress of blue gossamer. Butterflied sleeves that ghosted at her elbows and matched the ones in his stomach that exploded with flight at the sight of her.

Elizabeth Dandridge, her impossibly dark eyes on him as he sang. Plush pink lips stretched into a smile to knock the air from his lungs.

Elizabeth Dandridge, who drank water only, save for the singular tea she ordered at nine-forty-two.

Elizabeth Dandridge, a string of diamonds laid against the freckled base of her neck, matched by two pieces in her ears, a bracelet on her wrist. Diamonds that were outdone only by the spark of her smile, the shimmer in her eyes. The sound of her laugh.

The only thing that quelled his jagged replication of each moment in her presence was the promise of their lunch date. Even if she had hesitated to such a soon meeting, she had said yes all the same. She wanted to see him too. And that meant the world and more.

“Five thousand dollars!”

Her brother sat on the edge of her bed. He appeared small in the moment, a child scolded by his guardian. Hands burrowed between his knees, feet turned in on each other, eyes downcast in shamed embarrassment.

“Bet-.”

“Five  _ thousand _ , Howard. Do you know- No, of course you don’t.” Her fingers dug at the pins in her hair. The ones near her scalp itched to high heaven but it wasn’t yet time to take them out. “He  _ threatened _ me, Howe. In front of the people I work with. I had to all but promise him the money so he would leave me alone.”

She groaned and spun on her heel, suddenly unable to stomach the sight of her brother. Thumbnail wedged between her top and bottom teeth, gut chock full of rotten nausea and a gilded cage of dove birds. Her steps paced in front of him, quick and cut precisely as all her movements managed to be. A downright opposition to the thoughts that exploded in her head.

“Honestly, Howard, do you ever for a second think of the consequences of your actions?” The words spat out as she withdrew to the expansive bathroom. The bed creaked as she sat down on the fur stool of the vanity and locked eyes with herself in the mirror. Howard appeared behind her, positioning himself on the edge of the claw-footed tub. “The answer is no, you don’t.” She provided for him as she began to tug the metal clips from her hair. “You drink and you gamble away your money and then you do the same thing with  _ my _ money. You skate on thin ice at your job and consistently put  _ my _ job on the line with your surmounting mistakes.”

“Don’t be mean, Bet.”

The left side of her jaw ticked into a stringent form as she locked it. Teeth skidded over the tip of her tongue and back across the pliable skin of her cheeks. “Mean?” She scoffed out, not moving. Her shoulders remained rigid, dark eyes focused on his form in the reflective glass. “You haven’t  _ seen _ mean from me yet. And I swear to you, you’ll know when you do.” She ducked her head and took a shaking breath.

Was everyone other person on the planet as continuously exhausted as she? Did anyone else feel the constant need to repress and bury each core piece of themselves, leaving only one sliver available to the public taking?

Elizabeth glanced down at the discarded hair pins on the vanity and slid them out of sight. She grabbed the silver-backed brush and applied gentle ministrations to her hair, watching with serene interest as the waved curls of copper hair fluffed and formed again.

“Get out.” Her free hand waved backward to him. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Not that it had been much of a conversation at all. Only her snapping at him in the heat of the moment and growing so tired of always having to clean up his messes. He and their parents would all rue the day they sent him to stay with her. One way or another, they would.

From his stance outside the lavish Beverly Hills mansion, he could hear the reverberation of the four beats he gave the ornate gold knocker. The knocker itself was bigger than his fist, shaped as a jovial and round bumblebee. Each movement up and back against the door patterned to make the outstretched wings in a flight.

Upon his initial arrival to the gated mansion nestled snug and solitary on a hill, he had been sure she’d delivered him to the wrong address. By either intention or not. The sunset orange exterior was a stark contrast to the rigidly tuned woman he’d met the night prior. It was safe to say that based on his first encounter with Elizabeth Dandridge, he had expected a stoic white mansion, complete with sturdy windows and Doric-esque columns. Not the warm embrace of the settling dusk to encompass the exterior, matched to smooth, dark gold Corinthian columns.

He clutched the newly potted plant to his chest, inhaling the not-yet-there scent of jasmine that the florist had promised would one day make an appearance. It was all leaves, not having yet blossomed a flower. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind she would breathe life into it and make it beautiful.

She said she loved growing orchids.

Harry wasn’t ashamed to admit he spent all morning dashing around the public library and pouring his eyes into flora books. He’d never had a green thumb and probably never would, but he would know enough for the one who did.

His attention had never been so enraptured by a woman before. 

By the time the crested door swung open, his heart was hammering a mile a minute. Skin warm and damp with expectation, she blew him out of the water the moment his eyes snapped to her. His mouth dried, tongue heavy and now too big. The brown flowerpot slick against clammed hands.

“Harry, hi.” Those pretty pink lips spread open into a smile even Joseph Stalin would have loved. The sound of his name falling from her lips sent his head into a dizzying state of grace. Was Harry his name? If she said so, then so be it. His name would be whatever she decided.

“Um, for you.” He offered her the plant in a jerking motion. Swallowing, he averted his eyes to the leaves poking from the soil. “It’s an orchid. Or, it will be.”

He let his gaze flicker to her face, stomach hurtling as her smile widened. “How sweet of you, thank you.” She took the pot from him, their fingertips brushing in the action and he swore every piece of him startled to life. Skin buzzing, aching for just another ghosted feel. “Here, come inside and I’ll put this away before we go.”

He delved further into her uncharted waters as he stepped over the threshold, softly closing the door behind him.

The inside of the house was just as he expected and at the same time, far off from what his brain had conjured. Two spiral staircases constructed of polished dark wood, railed by twisted gold. A long dark table between the twin bases, holding only a telephone. By the white double-doors, a single tall table that housed a vibrant purple flower. The floor green stone that looked out of place and just perfect.

No, he wouldn’t have pegged her for any of this.

“I apologize for the mess,” she gestured with one hand to the paint cans as he followed her trail to the kitchen, “the contractors are on their break at the moment.” The soon-to-be flower was given a home on the singular yellow cabinet counter. He watched her, enamored with the way she pressed a leaf between her middle and forefingers. “I bought the house last year and I’m only just now getting around to renovating it.”

Through the window over the sink, he saw the back lawn. Most of it was excavated, save for the kidney pool in the middle of a stoned patio area. Everything past that was brown dirt and yard tools.

“Burying a body?” He nodded his head to the window.

The chimed chill of her laugh sent the hairs on the back of his neck into an attentive stance. Silverbells, metal windchimes in a gentle breeze.

“Hardly.” She glanced out the window. “Toiling the ground up to lay down better soil. Most of the earth there was dead, and it just so happened to be the perfect place for a garden.”

_ I like flowers. _

She gave the leaf one last fleeting touch of tender love. “Let me grab my coat and we’ll go.” The puppy he’s become in her glowing aurora, he follows her back to the foyer.

His eyes traverse the area once more in the effort to memorize every minute detail of her residence. From the lotus molded designs on the ceiling, to the gold-trimmed windowpanes and the man on the balcony-.

The man on the balcony?

Fevered, he shot his attention back to the figure that loomed overhead. Hands shoved in the pockets of dark trousers, face pulled together in what Harry could only call disdain. Harry shifted his weight between his feet.

“You’ve got a man in your house.” He murmured, eyes still locked on the mysterious figure.

Elizabeth’s gaze, however, didn’t falter from his face. She straightened the cream coat, aligning its lapels perfectly to the buttons of her dark green dress. “It’s only Howard. Are you ready to go?”

This time, she followed him out, the door closing behind them. His car sat parked parallel to her home, wedged between the front door and the stone fountain. A streak of butter yellow in the midday sun, top down to reveal snow white seats. The Cadillac was his pride and joy.

“Oh, gracious. This is your car?” She ran a finger along the edge of the door. “Holy smokes, it’s grand!”

Harry chuckled as he opened the door for her. If the temperature had been any cooler, wind any stronger, he would have had the top up. Thankfully, California winters weren’t so unforgiving. But it didn’t stop him from asking as he got in the car, “Top up?”

As she clicked her seatbelt into place, her head lolled against the headrest and she looked over at him. Those abyssal eyes swallowed him whole, gleaming hopes and covenants he could barely wrap his head around. And in the sunlight, rays battering down against her face, he saw the dusting of freckles scattered across her face. They expanded everywhere, forehead to neck, down to the piece of exposed clavicle her dress offered. Stardust sprinkled over her skin, clear as day.

“No, definitely not.” She grinned.

Wild. She was wild. Free would have perhaps been a better word. Wind blowing through the fresh curls she had so meticulously configured, one arm outstretched into the wide-open air as Harry drove them into town. Something about it all made her lungs expand and her heart thud several times too fast.

There was no control here, not with him. Nothing to dig her fingers into for leverage, no ground to plant her feet into. She was free falling, hurtling into the unknown. It sent shockwaves through every fiber of her being, licking her senses into overdrive and she knew it was all bad.

No good could ever come from that.

“Do you like surprises?” Harry’s voice was blanketed by the breeze. The odd question unfurled her rapture and she turned in the seat to face him. His eyes were steady on the stretched road ahead. His profile something only an artist could have carved out. Strong, clean jaw paralleled to a dashingly sloped nose. Even without seeing him head on, she could make out the Cupid’s bow form of forever pink lips.

No, nothing good would come from him.

It was a tantalizing, terrifying realization. His danger to her and all she held dear should have been enough for her to cast him away and forget his existence. But who could cast him out? A face so beautiful, a smile so damning, voice so tender, and words so sweet. Thunder and lightning in the middle of a sunshine day.

They said Lucifer was the most beautiful of all angels. And he became the Devil.

This was a man sent by the Devil to tempt her, test her. Challenge her and make her rise to the occasion. Or fall. Temptation in the form of chocolate curls and emerald eyes, to make her feel vivacious and alive.

She would not fail. She never failed.

“No.” She answered coolly. “I don’t much care for the state of unknowing.”

His face cracked open like a rock hiding a gemstone as he breathed out a touch of laughter. “I didn’t think so.” The hand he had curved over the gearshift jerked as he switched gears, passing over into the fast lane. “Hope you don’t mind lunch on the beach.” She followed his shifting gaze to the backseat of the car.

A red and white checkered blanket folded neatly next to a brown wicker basket. A private lunch. Just the two of them on the beach. No busy restaurant full of patrons with watchful eyes. No one to take her picture. She loved having her picture taken. It meant she was becoming somebody. That she  _ was _ somebody. Someone worth having a picture of.

But it also meant that no one would see them. No one to suspect a possible breach of a certain clause of her contract. Not that she would ever. Her head is level and her dream so firmly in her grasp, she will die before he lets it go.

“If I did have an objection?” She countered him. “What then?”

His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the steering wheel. She wished so badly to venture into his head and pull out his thoughts. Were they as airy and fluffed, fresh spun cotton candy, the way hers were becoming?

What did he want from her?

That stand-alone question hammered against her bones. Reasoning unclear and his charm full of misdirection.

What did she want from him?

She could want nothing other than the most polite of friendships. Steadily. Surely. Unfortunately…?

“I would turn the car around and take you to a nice restaurant.” He said, matter-of-fact. Her wish, his command.

So, maybe that was why she said, “Keep driving.”

There was an aching feeling in his chest that what he saw and what he got were polar opposites. Not even a feeling, he knew it. Harry prided himself on his ability to read people, their body language, cues, and facial expressions.

Which therein lied the problem with Elizabeth.

If people were books, she was in the forbidden section. Tapered off, locked and chained for no one’s eyes. Something, he didn’t doubt, of her own doing. She made herself impossible to access. You could see her, hear her, touch her, but there was no delving into her head.

What he saw was the prospect of a beast, haunting yellow eyes and razored claws and jagged teeth that fell behind a beautiful face. What he got was a respectable, demure, positively perfect young woman.

“Did you make all this?” The chicken salad sandwich lay half-eaten on her plate. Grapes completely disappeared, her water near gone.

Harry nodded, “I like cooking. Relaxes me. Do you cook?”

“On occasion. I’m not very good, so-.”

“So, you can’t bear to do it when you don’t have to?” He raised an eyebrow.

If she was surprised by his observance, she didn’t show it. He knew it; she took her role as an actress to an extreme. Her entire life was a movie, herself only a character to be played. The world was her stage, everyone else only extras in a movie all about Elizabeth Dandridge.

He considered himself lucky to make the cut for supporting role.

“Right.” She said in a quiet murmur. “That’s…yes.”

Satisfied with his correct assumption on her character, he leaned back on his hands. “You don’t like to be bad at things, do you?” He arched his head up to the sky, allowing himself to bask in the gradual warmth of the December sun. “Even worse, you obsess over the things you’re good at, don’t you?”

He didn’t miss the flash across her face. Quick knit of her eyebrows drawn together and the purse of her lips. No one had ever examined her this way before, that he knew. And he was aware of the reasoning as to why. She was distant, a planet far off in the sky. No, not a planet. The sun, maybe. Bright enough and burning enough. Something to be viewed, admired, adored. Never explored or understood. She probably didn’t give them the chance.

With her straight-laced posture, rigid shoulders, hands clasped tight together in her lap. God, no one ever gave her the option to be anything other than perfect. And she’d let herself mold into it, become that embodiment everyone wished for. If they wanted perfect, they need only look to her.

She should have been wild, careless, and carefree. Free as the wind and untamable. But there she sat, the perfect young lady. Maybe she liked this desired version of herself. And maybe, just maybe, she’d never given the beast a chance in hell to take a breath of the world. To see the light of day and live just once. Instead, she chained it up and left it to starve.

Rabid demons were so much worse, didn’t she know?

“You can relax your shoulders, love. No one around but me.”

The way she scoffed at his suggestion. As if he were the same as anyone else. He could have been. He didn’t want to be. Not to her.

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” Venom words coated in caramel glaze. A knife covered in rose perfume and painted pink, it wasn’t any less deadly. Only a hell of a lot prettier. “Don’t pretend you do.”

He knew he was pushing his luck with her. Rubber bands only stretched so far before they snapped or broke. He didn’t want either of those things to happen with her. “M’sorry.” He relented in a soft tone. “You scare the livin’ shit out of me, y’know that?”

The brazen confession was enough to cause her head to jerk around in his direction. It was plain to see where everyone else got caught up on their journey to her. There was no breezing past her with one fair glance. She had to be seen, treasured, evoked as a holy deity. Her aura demanded it and for a minute, he was hooked in it.

Downward tilt of her chin. The small ‘o’ her mouth formed, allowing a peek at sterling pearly whites mostly hidden by such a pretty pink shade. The most delicately formed nose he’d ever seen on a person. Eyes so dark he saw stars. An entire universe inside her, waiting for someone to launch in and count the planets, comets, nebulas, and more. Freckles that created constellations against suppled skin, patterned over and around the expanse of her. Andromeda, Lupus, Vulpecula. All there, all silent reminders of the galaxies that swirled behind those eyes.

How could anyone resist admiring her? How had no one erected a statue in her honor yet, renamed the town after her?

She, in all her meticulous and stringent movements, demanded eternal love from anyone who laid eyes on her. Fuck, God, was he a goner.

“Why do you say that?” She cocked her head to the side. “I’m not a scary person.”

She could be. He could see it. Her bad side wasn’t one any person would want to be on. God help the soul who found himself there. And God help the man who found himself shamelessly, unfathomably in love with her.

“Don’t wanna not know ya.” Harry blinked into the sun. “You’re all self-control and discipline and jeez, perfect as a picture. And I’m…here. Can’t believe I’m here with you. Hearing you laugh and seeing you smile. I’ve got a couple hundred butterflies in my stomach and you’re driving ‘em wild.”

Elizabeth squinted, as if to study him. And then, she turned away.

He had hoped his honest words would be enough to grant him some semblance of the same from her. Enough to quench his ache to know her. A morsel, a shred to tide him over until God knew when. It was beginning to seem like never.

The moment she committed the crime, she regretted it. And regret was not something she allowed to take root often. She did not regret or feel guilty or remorseful. There was no point in any of it.

How could one man, one she barely knew, at that, make those emotions stir and unravel in her core? There were so many questions that demanded answers and she had none to give. The past twenty-four hours resulted in his abrupt existence in her life and it was quickly becoming too much. He asked for nothing and yet everything. He prodded buttons and evaluated her mind as if he had known her for ages. Too well to the point she was almost certain he was psychic.

The supernova that was Harry Styles was beginning to swallow her whole.

She shouldn’t have turned away from him. He had said such pretty things and she had replied with nothing. She offered him nothing but time and something lovely to look at. Therein lied another thing: he didn’t look at her the way other men did. There was revelation, sure, but not blind. He studied and peered and  _ understood _ the way no one else ever had. It made her skin crawl and burn. He saw past the illusion she had so tirelessly worked to create, and he was keen on pulling it away.

She should have answered. Told him that such a similar experience was taking root in her own body. That every lock of their eyes sent her hurtling into a lush forest of evergreen and maybe she did want to get lost there. That she dreamt of his voice and his rings the night before. Thought of mapping her way around whatever tattoos decorated his skin. Imagined the feel of her fingers tangled in his hair. Perhaps she should have poured a little of her own honesty into the mix and admitted that his wolf’s smile did little to scare her and instead enticed her closer.

Then again, that was the worst possible thing she could have done. Saying any of those things was speaking something into existence that could not be allowed to have a breath of life. To hide them was better for her and for him. As much as she hated it.

For the first time in three years, Elizabeth cursed the morality clause.

“Did you have a nice time today?”

He shuffled on his feet, eyes avoiding hers. Not that she blamed him. Her lack of response to his soul confession should have been enough to send him packing.

She didn’t want him to go.

“It was a real gas of a time, Harry, thank you.”

Harps of tropic orange and sherbet pink painted the sky. Sun setting, she knew his departure would take him to the Midnight Lounge. 

“Killer-diller.” His finger lifted to brush the underside of his nose. “I should jet if I want to make my-.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology was fluid when it left her mouth. She hated to apologize, never having felt herself responsible for any wrongdoing. She wasn’t in the wrong then, she just hated how forlorn he was. Because of her. “I should have- my behavior earlier was somewhat crass and I should have made my expectations and intentions clear from the beginning.”

His shoulder found a home against the left door. The bumblebee knocker she had mindlessly chosen months ago mocked her mannered tendencies. If only she was as free to fly as a bee.

“I didn’t expect ya to shimmy into your knickers in my backseat, Elizabeth. Not even a kiss, honest. Jus’ conversation and-.”

The freedom at which he delivered the sentiments brought warmth to her cheeks. If only she could express herself half so well.

“We should be friends.” She whispered.

_ We have to be friends. _

Anything more was forbidden. Anything more was a fatal risk to her career. She didn’t care how beautiful he was, how enchanting his singing, or bewitching his sweet nothings. She didn’t care that his laughter pierced the depths of her soul or that he made her feel like running into the ocean with only her chemise. Or that her brain became a cotton candy wonderland when he said her name.

No matter how much her heart quickened in his presence or at the thought of him, he wouldn’t derail her career. He wouldn’t halt her dreams.

Nothing had ever stopped her before, and she would be damned if whatever  _ this _ was did.

Harry’s mouth popped open and then promptly shut once again. She waited, breath hiked for a response he never gave.

She licked over her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. Friendship is all I can allow and if that’s not acceptable to you then-.”

“I’d be honored as hell to be your friend. Any place is better than none at all, yeah?”

That was what she told herself when they bid farewell and she closed the door.  _ Any place is better than none at all _ , even if the sinking feeling in her gut said otherwise.


	5. five: fifty percent

_ We should be friends. _

The words stuck in him like glue. Try as he might, he wasn’t able to clean them out. No amount of scrubbing his insides would get rid of those bittersweet bullets. Each recollection brought a swifter, sharper, darker piece of pain.

To be her friend, still allowed to bask in her honey glow was better than to have met her the two times and that be that. It sure as shit wounded his ego and sent him spiraling into self-doubt- hadn’t he been courteous enough, gracious, unexpectant- why the  _ fuck  _ wasn’t he good enough?

He’d only seen her once in the week since that glorious horror show of a picnic. It hadn’t been planned, a happenstance run-in as he was on his way to work and her leaving a nondescript lesson and heading to an even more vague dinner. Was her aloofness and general unattainability the product of her already being spoken for? Hell, was that Gregory guy her man? Nah, surely not. He’d been too free-willing with her, allowed Harry to consume all her time that first night. Any man rationing her would have known better. Not to mention, she didn’t seem the type to step out.

He saw it in her eyes. She was a fierce lover.

Thinking back to that first night, his mind dazzled by her proximity and the glitter of all her jewels, he remembered the shine her eyes held and how her smile grew any time she was given the chance to dote on her career. That had to be it. Her drive, ambition, passion, and power all honed in on that one thing. Every ounce of her being dedicated to achieving her dream.

He respected it.

He hated it.

Harry could be relentless. Implacable. Unstoppable until he attained what he wanted. The problem was, he wasn’t wholly sure what he wanted from her. Limited time and experience with her left him at fault and loss of direction. For sure, his goal went past the boundary of friendship. But what exactly, he couldn’t say. He hadn’t been exposed to her long enough to know anything more than to be without her was agony and to be with her was torture. The infection of Elizabeth Dandridge beginning to spread from his head to his heart. He was sick with her. Whatever that meant.

He knew. Deep down, he knew and couldn’t accept it. That the hammer of his heart against his chest was the product of burgeoning feelings. The insatiable need to be the cause of her smile, that silvered laugh, only came from one place.

Infatuation.

Harry could be relentless on this mission. But he knew better. A shameless pursuit would only drive her further away. To know her, be near her, assess if her heart bled the way his did, he would have to be safe. Cautious.

He would have to be her friend.

If one more person tried to hand her a script, she was going to scream. Or maybe faint. People responded better to women fainting than they did women screaming. Fainting was more docile, quieter, definitely more ladylike. That would have to be the route. If someone attempted to covertly slip a script into her hand as they walked by, her eyes would roll back and she would- gracefully, of course,- fall to the floor. What a scene it would be.

They should stick that in their movie and call it a day.

“You look displeased.”

Having always prided herself in the ability to shade her emotions with expressions of passivity, Elizabeth was stunned at Gregory’s observance. For, to say she was in a foul mood was a massive understatement. The entire film crew appeared to be under the curse of believing she didn’t know her lines. Or the movie at all for that matter.

Despite her sour feelings, she turned to her co-star with a placate smile. If she appeared as anything less than jovial, they would deem her difficult and she very well couldn’t have that. “Me? Never.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Only a little tired. I hate to admit but I slipped out of the habit of early mornings and late nights.”

It wasn’t necessarily a lie. She  _ was  _ edging to the point of exhaustion. Filming had only been going on a few days and the days were weathering. Up before the sun every morning, home hours after the moon was high in the sky. She had gotten comfortable in a routine of lazy and casual days and now was paying the price. Too many months without filming a picture would do that to a person. The one solace was that filming was her only priority. She didn’t have to attend lessons or classes or anything. Just show up to the set every day and wow them all with her dedication and natural talent.

Which, clearly, wasn’t working since people were trying to pass scripts off to her left and right.

“Gregory,” she said quietly, glancing over her shoulder, “may I ask you a question?”

“What’s on your mind?” He leaned down to lend his ear. Privacy was something uncommon among stars, especially on set. When the opportunity arose, it had to be snatched.

“The past few days, I’ve noticed the crew attempting to give me scripts. They always ask if I need a copy and it seems the more I deny, the more they ask.” Bile rose in her throat as she spoke. The possibility of not being seen as anything less than exemplary made her stomach churn. She worked too hard to not be considered phenomenal. “Am I botching my lines?”

She focused on his face and was glad for the fact. The shade that passed over his eyes and the brief glance towards Mr. Freeman was all the answer she needed. Somehow, somewhere, she was messing up.

“No, Elizabeth. You’re doing wonderfully as always. I’m sure they just aren’t used to working with someone who had the entire script memorized before the audition. Don’t put too much stock in it, all right?”

As if that wouldn’t happen. He had practically signaled that she was doing something wrong.

All she did, though, was smile and nod. “Of course. Thank you. We should get back to it, I suppose?”

Gregory wound his elbow around hers and walked with her back to the part of set they were due to be at after the break. Only a minute after, he was whisked away for touch-ups on his hair.

“Ms. Dandridge?”

Her eyes snapped up from her cuticles to meet Mr. Freeman’s assistant, Josiah. Right off the bat, she noticed the bulk of papers clutched to his chest. A script.

“Yes,” she held her hand out, “thank you.”

If she was doing something wrong, she needed to fix it. As soon as possible. He passed the script off to her and went on his way. Glancing around the general vicinity, she flipped the script open. She scanned over all the parts they had worked on the past number of days, the ball in her throat growing.

It was all right. All correct. She hadn’t messed up a single thing. All her lines were said as they’d been written. She had not accidentally improvised something of poor value or mixed lines into scenes they didn’t belong. She was doing everything right.

But…But there had to be a reason. There had to be some explanation as to why they were all so insistent on her need for a script. A reason as to why Gregory appeared uncomfortable and had spouted some bland lie. No one lied without reason. She knew that better than anyone.

“Ms. Dandridge.”

Elizabeth looked up from the script in her hand. Five hours later and she still couldn’t believe something was going wrong. Her finger wasn’t yet on the mishaps, but she was all too aware of their lingering presence. After each scene filmed, she forced herself to read over it in the script to ensure she had performed correctly. And though each line was delivered in its clear written form, her memory skills weren’t enough to assuage the glances between the crew, Mr. Freeman, and Mr. Rush.

This had never happened to her before. She had never been the victim of such a circumstance. Her abilities had only served to impress others, not be the cause of wayward and forlorn whispers and stares.

She had never been happier to hear that a day of filming was over. Especially when the announcement came earlier than usual. She would be out in time to have something more than an apple for dinner.

“Hmm?” She blinked absently at the assistant of…someone. To be frank, they all tended to run together in her head.

“Your assistant arrived an hour ago. He told me not to bother you until after filming concluded for the day, but he’s waiting for you in your dressing room.”

Paul?

Assistant was for a lack of better wording. A sort of gift from Mr. Mayer, Paul served only to alert Elizabeth of potential roles, pointers, and to schedule her lessons. Truly, she hardly ever saw him. If he ever needed to speak to her, he only ever rang the phone.

“Right. Thank you.”

She left the script on the fruit table. In all honesty, looking at it was beginning to make her dizzy. She had poured too much energy into locating whatever mistakes she was making. And had, of course, found nothing to substantiate everyone’s apparent discomfort and disappointment in her performance.

Elizabeth had never been referred to or seen as anything less than perfect, so it was with ease to say she was losing her mind.

She weaved her way through the crew as they began to clean up the day’s mess and rearrange everything for the first scene of the next day. She mumbled gracious good-byes to the crew and supporting cast, never realizing that her lead co-star, director, and producer were all missing from the set.

In fact, she didn’t notice at all until she was passing by the cracked door of Gregory’s dressing room, only three doors from her own. She hadn’t at all thought of their strange absences until the sound of their congregated voices drew her to a slowed pause outside of Gregory’s door.

“For her to have come so highly recommended by you and Louis, I cannot fathom how her performances this week have been nothing short of lackluster and disappointing.” She recognized instantly Freeman’s nasally tone. Was he…Surely not. He couldn’t be. Right?

“Elizabeth has never been either of those things.” The quick-natured response from Gregory’s defensive tone. “She needs only time, I promise.” He continued on.

They  _ were  _ talking about her!

But heavens, lackluster? Disappointing? Elizabeth couldn’t remember a time in her life she’d been anything as such. Having never received anything but a banging compliment, her director’s words were knives in her stomach. Possibly, considering their close working nature, her back. Certainly she wasn’t performing that badly. Was she? Oh, God,  _ was she? _

“Peck, you’re a good man but I’m not sure time can fix her stiffness and remotely plain demeanor. I know the two of you are friends and you do work well together, but that may not mean she’s the best choice for our Vivian.”

The crescents of her nails dug into her palms. The doves that had once flurried in her stomach turned to snakes in murky water. She swallowed, the skin on the back of her neck prickling.

“Time will mend this, Mr. Freeman, I know it.” Gregory once again went to her aid. Thank God for him. “This is unlike any role she’s done before or even prepared for. Mr. Mayer himself knew the risk he was taking in suggesting her, but he wouldn’t have done so without cause. She needs time to step out of her comfort zone and fully immerse herself into the type of person Vivian Burbank should be. Frankly, the two could not be more dissimilar.”

She wanted to scream. Tears, hard as she tried to keep them under, burned the corners of her eyes. She wanted to barge in there and yell at them, give them a proper piece of her mind, and let them know that no one else could do Vivian. And yet, she did not. There could be no more damaging an outburst than the one she ached to commit. Doing so would forever tarnish her.

“She’s an actress, Peck.” Mr. Rush’s gravel tone huffed out in plain annoyance. “And if she’s as good as everyone says she is, she won’t need time or even have a comfort zone. You and she better hope, for her sake, that she comes in next week and delivers us a fox instead of a rabbit.”

With every inch of her body on fire, Elizabeth fled from the scene with only the grace she inhabited. Pace quickened but not quite a jog, she fastened herself into her dressing room and bolted the door shut. With a sigh, she pressed her back to the door.

“Elizabeth, good. I was beginning to wonder where you were.”

Fucking Paul.

Even though he never changed between their meetings, she was always surprised to see him. His voice projected him to be older than he was, but his face revealed the true nature of his age. Only a year younger than she, he appeared as a boy who would still be away at college. Never without a plaid brown-based sweater vest, starch white shirt tucked beneath it and into tan or brown pants. Rounded glasses that made his eyes seem bigger than they were, the tops always shaded by fine blond strands.

Staring him down, she finally understood the reasoning for his abrupt appearance.

“They hate me.” She choked out. The sheer shock of the words, her circumstance, finally dawning on her.

“Who hates you?”

As if he didn’t know. She despised anyone who tried to play dumb. There was no point in games, especially when her career was at stake.

“Mr. Freeman and Mr. Rush.” She snapped at him. He flinched, never having heard her tone as anything but pliant. Elizabeth sucked in a breath and exhaled through her nose. “Forgive me, I just…I heard them talking about me. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped but the things they were saying.” Paul asked what she heard. “They called me lackluster  _ and _ stiff  _ and _ plain. I…Am I really those things?”

No, she knew she wasn’t. She never had been, not for a moment. But she needed the praise, the reassurance that she wasn’t by some stroke of luck a starlet. The stars hadn’t been aligned just right for her auditions for  _ Elegance  _ or  _ Flight Star _ . She was good. Better than, she was fantastic. Freeman and Rush were wrong, and she would prove them so.

“No, Elizabeth, you are none of those things. It’s just…”

Hell, she  _ was  _ doing something wrong. And everyone knew. Even Gregory had admitted so, and he was her fiercest supporter. She was going to be sick.

“It’s what?”

“Well, to be frank with you, it’s your role. Vivian is supposed to be a…a real Veronica Lake of sorts. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

All too well, does she.

The sort of role she’d never done before- as Gregory had said-, one she had never even thought of considering. Without the cues, without having the words written so clearly for her between lines in the script, she had missed the depth of her character. She could run lines exactly as they were written until she was blue in the face and the problem still be un-mended. She wasn’t saying them wrong, she was  _ delivering _ them wrong.

Vivian Burbank wasn’t the same sort of woman as Fiona Trace or Minette Hollows. She didn’t need rescued, or a strong man at all. She was not a woman in trouble. She was the reason for the trouble. Seductive, manipulative, using each and all of her feminine wiles to get what she wanted. A real vamp of a woman.

“I’m not sexy enough for them.” She muttered.

Paul leaned against the black cherry vanity. He slipped a cigarette from the case and pushed it between his lips. Not wanting to be seen as more difficult than she already was becoming, Elizabeth shook her head when he asked if she minded. The smell of the burning tobacco fizzled in her nostrils and sent her stomach-snakes into recoiling anger.

“Not your fault, doll face.” She made sure not to flinch at the pet name. “No one told you the depth of your role.” Didn’t he know they shouldn’t have had to? Was that not the point of being the greatest ever? That she would have known that without being told? “You’ve got it in you, you just need to lock into your inner vamp. Should be easy, all women have one.”

Did they? She was certain she was lacking in that department. She’d never charmed men with flirtatious smiles or touches or provocative language or clothes. Only by smiling nicely and appearing demure.

“All right.” She stood up, squaring her shoulders. “I will.”

She would be the best vamp Hollywood had ever seen. She’d put Veronica Lake, Joan Crawford, and all the others to shame.

“Elizabeth, this is serious. If you can’t be what they want, they will bring someone else in. Perhaps-.”

“Perhaps what?” Through gritted teeth. She would not lose this role.

“I was only going to suggest ringing up Ms. Lake or Ms. Crawford for a bit of friendly advice…?”

There was no way that would happen. Not even over her dead body. She didn’t need help. She never had and she wouldn’t start then. She had done everything else on her own to get this far. She wasn’t going to start asking for handouts now. She wasn’t some charity case. She was Elizabeth goddamn Dandridge, for Christ’s sake.

“No.” She said curtly. “That will not be necessary. I can do this.”

_ I will do this. _

__

She would have been lying if she said she didn’t know where she was going. If she had said there was no clear destination that rang out in her mind. After all, she didn’t always leave her house at sixty-thirty in the evening clad in a dark turtleneck and even darker skirt. Not with her hair tied back in a grey scarf. Had she not been conflicted about a level of press coverage, maybe she would have also worn her eyeglasses, but God forbid she be spotted with those on.

If she wouldn’t leave her house in pants, she wasn’t leaving with her glasses on.

Blunt edges of her fingernails tapped against the rounded table, his heaven-sent voice resonating through the lounge.

It would have also been a lie for her to say that Harry wasn’t the reason for her presence at the Midnight Lounge. Why else would she have gone alone? She may have been a genius- in her own mind- but it didn’t take that for her to know seeing his face would improve her mood.

Which, mind you, happened the moment she walked into the lounge and spotted him making his preparations on the dais. Surrounded by his house band, back turned to everyone but them, all she saw was the smooth blue of his suit and his halo of chocolate curls.

Most of the lounge patrons were women. Most her age or closer, some older. And with their eyes tuned in to the singer, all bubbled giggles aimed at him, Elizabeth knew he was the reason they showed up. It was clockwork how at the very second he turned around, the women collapsed into fits of blushing and hushed squeals. Perhaps if Elizabeth possessed a lower level of self-restraint or composure, she too would have acted in a similar manner.

His appeal wasn’t lost on her. Rather, it had nestled itself deep in her and taken root. He was too handsome for anyone’s good- most certainly her own. Features that only one of the greats, such as Bernini, could have sculptured. It almost, for fleeting pieces of time, made her believe in God again. If he existed, it had only been for the time it took to craft Harry Styles.

She leaned forward as he grabbed hold of the microphone stand. Chin rested on the bend of her knuckles, she watched him survey the crowd. With squinted eyes, his gaze found her, and his entire posture relaxed. Face overtaken by a breathtaking smile before he began to sing.

Had he…Had he been looking for her? Was that something he did each night before he performed? Did he search for her in the crowd, hoping to see her face? Of all the people who came to watch him, listen to him sing, was she the only person he wanted to see?

As well as she knew that she housed some piece of heavy-hearted sentiment for him, she knew he held the same for her. Why else would he have been so hesitant to accept her bland offer of friendship? Or, rather, been so exuberant to do so?

“God, is he a dish or what?” A woman nearby gushed.

“He’s such a dreamboat!”

All the comments liquified in her ears. They were all things she knew to be true. Harry was handsome, there was no denying it. Doing so would be a flat lie and utterly disrespectful. However, the ones that struck her the most came from the table next to her. A group of girls, no doubt still in school and had somehow snuck in. All in red lips, dark swooshes of eyeliner, and clothes even Peggy wouldn’t have thought of wearing.

“He’s  _ so  _ sexy.”

“If he asked me backstage, I wouldn’t say no.”

“I wonder what his mouth tastes like.”

Their shameless statements made her shift in her seat. Even while in school, she’d never heard girls speak so cavalier. Granted, she had attended an all-girls school so there were no boys to be spoken of in salacious manner. And most the girls were too afraid to speak under the poisonous glare of Headmistress Flanagan, or the burning gaze of Jesus on the crucifix, lest they burn in Hell for all eternity.

_ Sexy _ .

_ …What his mouth tastes like… _

Elizabeth stood up and gathered her coat and purse from the chair next to hers. Her sudden, hurried movements garnered the attention of the girls and she knew for a fact Harry was watching her.

With her eyes glued to the floor, she left the lounge room. She knew exactly what she had to do for Monday morning’s filming.

She demanded each fractal of his attention from the moment he saw her. In his nightly ritual of scouring the lounge in the anticipated wish of maybe seeing her face- a wish that, with each passing night, began to grow futile- his eyes snapped to her.

Even with that tell-tale hair concealed by a scarf, he knew her. Even dressed covertly in a black turtleneck and black skirt, she stood apart from the other glitzy women of the room. Granted, Harry doesn’t believe for a second that she’d ever blended in once in her life. She radiated that energy of unprecedented value. Gold in the sea of silver. She had never been ordinary, not from her first breath, possibly not even before.

He couldn’t help but break into a smile when their gazes connected. Her own lips forming a coy smile when the other women giggled and shrieked at the sight of him. It was hard for him to ignore the gallop in his chest, the moisture on his palms, under the pressure of her stare. She was the only person in the room with him. The only one that mattered.

So, when she got up and took her leave, disappearing into the shadows, a piece of his heart fell away into the pit of his stomach. The lounge became a void of sorrow as he finished his first set, the beat of the drums and sound of his own voice fading into nothing.

As soon as the set was over, he hopped from the stage and beelined to the last place he saw her. Her table remained empty, their spot at the bar deserted. His only clue to her whereabouts the discreet nod of Wally’s head towards the back hall.

Harry found himself in front of the door to his dressing room. The door only cracked open when he distinctly remembered closing it. Palms clammed with the promise of her, he wiped them against the blue trousers and pushed open the door.

Her back turned, she was admiring the weeks’ worth of suits on the metal rack. He closed the door softly and cleared his throat.

Elizabeth spun, cheeks bright with a warmth he couldn’t place. A warmth that didn’t match the drowned look of those space-star eyes. “Harry, hi.” She carefully pulled the grey scarf from over her hair and draped it over her forearm. “I was just admiring your suits.”

_ I was just admiring you _ , but he wouldn’t dare say.

The suffocating boundary of friendship he had agreed to forbade it.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

The corners of her mouth lifted up in decorative amusement. Pretty as a picture didn’t begin to cover her. Only Da Vinci could have crafted someone so elegantly beautiful. “Are friends not allowed to visit one another at their place of work?”

Though he hated the word, it sounded awfully nice coming from her mouth.

_ Friends. _

He had never before despised a word, or something so sharply.

“Ah, so does that mean I can come see you film?” He retorted lightly. He could only imagine what it would be like. To see her so in tune in her element, the place she belonged. The force of nature, the eye of the hurricane. The sight of people used to bathing in the glow of others so caught up in hers, all eyes glued as she gave her sermon on the mountain.

He had hoped to gain an ounce of her silver laugh with his comment. All he earned, though, was a soured, puckered face of distaste. Now that couldn’t be good.

“I’m not sure you’d want to at this point.” Voice quiet, she looked away from him.

Something was wrong, indeed.

“S’going on, love? You’re upset.”

He kept his stance near the door as she perched herself atop the poor excuse of a vanity. Her thumb made its way to the corner of her mouth, the white crescent of the nail jammed between her teeth. The words poured out of her, slamming into his chest a meter a minute. Accidental eavesdropping on her director, producer, and that Peck fellow; said director and producer raking her talent over the coals with skepticism and psyche-damaging comments, all deaf to Peck’s defense of her; and her assistant’s warning that if she didn’t show up in three days with a stellar performance to knock them all back, she would be fired.

From the way she said the word, her entire dream of taking over Hollywood was hinged on this film.

He crossed the room to her and, without a thought, took her hands in his. “Elizabeth, you’ve never once in your days been lackluster or plain.”

Her eyes flickered up from the floor. They fell on his lips, nose, brow, before finally settling to his own. “You’ve barely known me a week.”

If he had less restraint, he would have taken her face in his hands and burrowed his affirmations into her. Her delicate structure would look nothing short of adorable in the mass of his hands. “I could have never met you and said the same thing, darling. They’re all barking if they think you’re nothing less than sublime. That’s on  _ Elegance _ .”

Her eyes lit with the mention of her breakout film. “You watched it?” Her fingers tightened around his.

“And  _ Flight Star _ . Yesterday, then again today. You’re bloody brilliant. I mean, I knew already but seeing ya in action really made my hea-.” He cut off his words. Too much, it would be far too much to admit that.

Her tongue poked out and slid between her lips before she pulled her hands away. Cool air once again meeting his palms, he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you.” She whispered. “I, er-.”

“You know, the whole sex appeal thing that Paul’s on about, it’s not as big as you think. It’s only fifty percent what you already have and then fifty percent of what people think you have.” He told her. He couldn’t remember where exactly he had obtained that morsel of advice, but he was glad he had it. She looked like she needed something to help her. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” He didn’t expect a real answer from her. Nothing of substance.

She was independent, fiercely so. She would do this on her own and she would excel at it. As she did everything. Except for cooking, a fact he was honored to possess. So, when she said “Yes, actually, there is,” the room spun.

“Anything. Whatever I can do, I will.”

He heard her swallow. Watched as she tucked her hands between her knees. Her eyes darted around the room before they found relief on his suit rack.

“Elizabeth…? What can I do?”

It was several long, chokingly silent moments between his question and her answer. It was slow, the way she dawned back on him. The fluent slide of her eyes back to his, how her head swiveled in that lackadaisical fashion.

“That fifty percent thing you mentioned. You can help me with that.”

He’d never said yes faster.


	6. six: the well-fed devil; the famished angel

Two days. She had two days to make herself a real vamp of a woman. How, she had no idea. The illicitness and mysteriousness that shrouded other women was lost upon her. She had never seen herself as seductive or womanly. Only perfect and not. All she knew was that she had to achieve that Veronica Lake in _The Glass Key_ effect on men and she had no earthly clue as to how it would happen.

Harry, the darling he was, agreed to help her. He hadn’t given her any clues for methodology, only promised to arrive at her house bright and early the next morning to begin their work. She had left the Midnight Lounge right after that, too eaten away with all the lascivious murmurs from the other women. Murmurs that induced counterparts in her head. Counterparts so powerful she had almost pulled out her hair.

Good gracious, what was it about him that made her lose all sense of herself?

Their contrasting ideas of what bright and early meant left her on edge. She had slept fitfully Friday night and awoke Saturday morning with a touch of exhaustion and the worry of his impending arrival. The six cohesive chimes were the force that shoved her from bed and into the shower. The image of his devilish smile the producer of her choice to wear her favorite casual dress of dark green, with a wide white belt. The recollected memory of the freedom he offered the basis for her decision to pick up her eye-glasses, and then put them on.

“BET!” Partnered to eight chimes of the grandfather clock outside her bedroom door, “Company!” And then, “Be back later!”

In a manner completely unlike her, she scrambled up from the vanity stool. The fleeting thought to abandon her eye-glasses came upon and vanished just as quickly. She gathered herself in poise before exiting her bedroom. The walk down the hall and to the balcony that overlooked the foyer was eternal in her eyes. No amount of steady breaths or mental repetitions slowed the quickened pace of her heart.

But he wasn’t there.

Elizabeth leaned over the edge of the balcony to peer down into the foyer. She saw the telephone table and the hydrangea by the door. The violet purple hydrangea that she had sworn up and down upon seeing for the first time would be blue. On the table next to the phone was a nondescript bag she had never before seen.

“Harry?”

“M’in the kitchen, love!”

She waved away his use of a trivial pet name and thanked who- or what- ever that at least he wasn’t in the habit of calling her Betty or Betsy. The stairs were taken two at a time and had the shag runners still been in use or at least still in the process of being ripped up, she would have tripped.

He was, in fact, in the kitchen. In the past week, the contractors had finished the kitchen. All the cabinets were a mustard yellow with grey granite tops. The walls a backsplash of white stone and grey mortar. On the windowsill above the sink was the not-yet blossomed orchid Harry had given her last weekend. The man himself admiring the green stem of the plant, leaned forward in curious inspection.

“They take a bit of time to bloom.” She captured his attention. As he spun to greet her, she pressed her hip against the refrigerator. “Very testy, orchids.”

“I read that.” His nod sage and smooth.

She cocked an eyebrow at the comment. He’d read about the nature of orchids? She pushed off the refrigerator and went to move the plant from the window to the counter in the shade.

“That so it doesn’t get too much sun?” He asked, leaning over her shoulder. “They only like the morning, right?”

“Did you read that as well?” She teased, finding that plunging ease at which he gave off. With nimble fingers, she adjusted the newly formed leaves and left the plant be.

Harry backed away as she turned to face him. “Maybe I did, yeah. You ready to cruise?”

Elizabeth hadn’t expected to leave the house. A thought that seemed silly considering she had donned her favorite dress for the occasion, but that was more of being near Harry than having to see anyone else. A public outing could be dangerous for her. If someone saw them together or a photograph was taken or-

“That depends. Where are you taking me?” Her words were out before she even realized she had wanted to say them.

Harry had a frustrating, vexatious, magnetic, enthralling way of tempting her from the cocoon in which she had always lived.

“S’a surprise, _ma petite fleur_.” The dulcet words of France rolled off his tongue and slithered over her flesh. All she wanted was for him to speak the language forever in the shell of her ear or never again at all.

In the vain attempt to shield herself from him further, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You know how I detest surprises.”

Plush strawberry lips curved into a maddeningly handsome smirk. “Yeah, somethin’ ‘bout not caring for the state of unknowing. I remember. Tough cookies, love. Though,” he stepped back to admire her outfit of choice, brows furrowing down in dissatisfaction, “you will need to change clothes.”

Elizabeth glanced down at the green skirt of her dress. The thin white stripe that paralleled the hem seemed to mock her for the choice in clothing. The dress was delightful in all aspects. Surely it was appropriate for whatever he was planning.

“This is my favorite dress.” She fingered the hem. Didn’t he like it? _Did she really care?_

No. Yes. Maybe?

“And it’s downright sweet but it’s not the bee’s knees for today’s outing, all right?”

Heavens, what kind of outing was too good for a dress? The idea of trousers stuck in her mind and she could only imagine the fit Mr. Mayer would throw if she wore them out.

“Then what-?”

“You have any swimsuits?”

She near choked on the air she was breathing.

Swimsuits. Where…The beach. It was the only logical explanation. Their first solitary piece of time together had been the beach. She did enjoy staring out at the horizon, the sound of waves crashing. It was the only part of Port Aransas she ever longed for.

She did, in fact, own a handful of swimsuits. All modest one-pieces of solid colors. One, however, was green with white polka dots. And with its sweetheart neck, it was her most adventurous one.

“Yes. I have some one-pieces upstairs. I’ll just-.”

“Never mind those. I brought you somethin’, follow me.” He waved his hand and he spun on the ball of his foot to leave the kitchen.

Something icky and rose-colored bubbled in her stomach as she followed him back to the foyer. He swiped the bag from the table and pulled out two heaps of fabric. He laid each on the table and told her to choose one.

Both swimsuits, both righteous in their own ways. One happened to be a one-piece, fashioned out of teal material with a hip-hugging skirt hemmed in white frill. With the thin shoulder straps and tight appearance of the bodice, it was more daring than anything she owned. And the other option…A risqué two piece, a top made like a brassiere and bottoms like small, clinging shorts, it was white with little pink flowers.

Elizabeth swallowed. Every piece of her brain told her to choose the one-piece, or at least deny both and go with her own swimsuit. The two-piece was so pretty, and the flowers made all the difference.

“Couldn’t find one with peonies or orchids.” Harry mumbled. “Looked all over in about four stores.”

Four stores, before eight in the morning?

_She’s an actress. She shouldn’t have a comfort zone._

This was all in the earnest attempt to help her channel her inner vamp. If Harry was going to take the time to teach her whatever he knew, she could at least meet him somewhere close to halfway. Elizabeth’s fingers closed around the two-piece swimsuit.

In hindsight, Harry regretted giving her the option of a two-piece swimsuit. How was he to know, when scouring over those stores and plucking options left and right, that the indominable Elizabeth Dandridge would have chosen to bare the sweet sliver of skin between her ribcage and naval?

And that slice of whatever heaven she contained was driving him fucking wild.

It took all his strength to keep his eyes trained to the horizon. He didn’t want to look and be caught staring and have her think he was some sort of sleaze.

“See that fellow over here?” Harry knocked his shoulder against hers. She hummed as a response, allowing him to look at her. Each time was like the first time, knocking the breath clean out of him. Copper hair blown back from her shoulders by the wind. It may have been winter, but Venice Beach didn’t adhere to Mother Nature’s laws. The stardust freckles that scattered over her face and neck extended to newly exposed parts on narrow shoulders, arms, the blades of her back. Constellations for him to connect in his mind, but never to explore. Though he chastised his earlier self for buying the two-piece floral swimsuit, he couldn’t wholly regret it.

“Harry.” She murmured, “You’re staring.”

He was.

“M’sorry. You’ve, uh, got a lot of those stardust things.”

The second her face pulled together in rapid confusion, he knew he had said the wrong thing. He expected a chide comment about their imposed boundary of friendship, perhaps the tsk of her tongue. But what he got was a quiet giggle and the shake of her head.

“You mean freckles?”

Harry nodded, securing his bottom lip between his teeth. _Stardust_. God, what a bloody piece of corn he was. “Yeah.” He rasped out. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Stardust and candy and the sunrise. Loudly, he cleared his throat. “The pants over there, in a navy swim shorts. He’s been clocking you for a minute. Make contact with ‘im and entice him.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, dark windows to the universe that lingered beyond. “Entice him?” His chuckle was soft and low enough that had she not been sitting so close, she would have missed it. But she didn’t and the response he got was a sharp jab to his ribcage. “Don’t tease. I’ve never done this before!”

“Talked to a man at the beach?”

Eyes once wide narrowed almost immediately. “Tried to tempt someone.”

Once again, he spoke without thinking, “You’re doing it to me. Have since the second I laid eyes on you.”

Her hand fell to the bend of his knee. Palm cool from the sand, it sparked his own skin at the contact. Modules of sand were all that truly separated them. Granules and a boundary that smothered him more and more by the hour.

Butterflies driven to insanity in his gut, skin on fire, each fiber of him electric and buzzing at the doe look of her eyes. Blush lips parted just barely in genuine surprise. The look, and each she gave, so foreign that he suspected she had long since mastered the art of remaining completely passive in her expressions.

“Harry…”

The one word, his name susurrated from her lips, held a million unsaid things.

_We can’t._

_We shouldn’t._

_You can’t._

_You shouldn’t._

_I won’t._

All the things she wouldn’t say. All the things he knew she wanted to. Maybe he was wrong. He knew he was wrong. Being her friend would never be enough. How did anyone survive it? How would he?

“I know.” He muttered as he drew away from her. Her hand slipped away back into the sand. “Friends, huh.” The knuckle of his forefinger swiped under his nostrils. “Right. Er, the fellow. Jus’ look at him all coquettish like and he’ll be a bee in your flower bud.”

Harry’s chest constricted with his advice. He held no apprehension that she wouldn’t be spectacular. The future of her job hindered on her success with this honey trap, therefore she would be a supernova.

The supernova of Elizabeth Dandridge was swallowing him whole.

Her head turned and he fought the urge to look away from her venture. Legs crossed over one another to form a misshapen heart and arms back supporting her weight, she looked a portrait. Streams of sun caught her hair a fire that was sure to burn anyone who dared journey to close for her comfort.

“He looked at me. We, our eyes met.” She said in a hushed tone.

Harry nodded. “He comin’?” She gave a quiet _yes_. “Good. When he gets over here, jus’ be your nice self. Laugh a little bit, duck your head some, don’t give him too much. Be cool and be you, little a both’ll go a long way.”

“Harry, I’m sitting here with you. No man in a firm brain would ever come talk to a woman next to another man.”

The words he said next stung him, a thousand bee stingers puncturing his throat and swelling his tongue. “M’gonna get up and leave ya for him. Won’t be far, swear it. If he tries any funny business, I’ll give him a good knuckle sandwich, yeah?” This was for her. For her career. Her success story. As much as he knew that, he still didn’t want to leave her in the path of another.

Possibilities of the future taunted him. What if navy shorts was her guy? The one she up and left it all for. What if that chum made her feel better than he did?

Harry didn’t even have the slightest goddamn clue _how_ he made her feel. She kept that shit locked up tighter than a bomb bunker.

“Don’t-.”

“You’ll be great. Keep it aces across the board, hmm?” He jumped to his feet and brushed the sand from his legs. He refused himself the reassuring pat to her shoulder and walked a few steps away. Far enough to give her space, closes enough to jump into action should the man try anything of suspect.

He kept his face turned away, focusing it instead on the parking lot. In the distance, his butter yellow Cadillac was just a speck in a sea of blacks, whites, and silvers. His ears itched at the performative, playful “Hi-de-ho,” Elizabeth greeted her fake suitor with.

She had the strings of Harry’s heart pulled so taut in her hands. The master of his puppet and she didn’t even know. Hell, maybe she did. He didn’t know which was worse.

“Wow, uh, hi. You’re-You’re-.”

Her tittering laugh seized the blades of his shoulders. “I’m Elizabeth. You are?”

To be honest, Harry forced shut the canals of his ears once the man gave his name. The last thing he wanted was to put a name to that guy’s mug. Agreeing to help her with this probably wasn’t his best decision. He hadn’t known the strenuous push it would have against his heart or the way it would lick flames on the wings of his butterflies. All he had known was that he wanted to help her. At whatever cost to himself.

“You rationed?” The chum asked her. Elizabeth’s reply was a courteous _no_. “That man you were with?”

Him. He was talking about Harry. And though he knew the label he would receive, the words she would use to describe him, it didn’t sting any less when she said, “He’s only a friend.”

“So,” Elizabeth lifted her head to look at Harry, “how did I do?” She, personally, thought she had done well. The man, whose name she hadn’t bothered to remember, had seemed smitten enough. She had certainly given plenty of coy smiles and bats of her lashes. It was all enough to make her dizzy.

Harry had ventured off to who knows where and was only just returning. She’d been both thankful and full of remorse at his parting. He made it difficult for her to breathe while but at the same time, she ached to be near him. He was a startlingly disorienting person, tooth-rotting sweet one minute and cool as a cucumber the text. She supposed he must feel the same way about her in her carefree moments that shattered as soon as she realized how dangerous it was to lose herself around him.

“Swell as a wave.” He situated himself on the blanket next to her. She couldn’t help but notice the distance he put between them. “That part you mentioned about touching flowers was bonkers, good thinking. You sure you don’t know what you’re doing?”

She laughed and said _no_ , she definitely was in the dark. Her head tilted back, chin high towards the sky in the effort to get sun on her neck. “I feel skeevy. I have _never_ spoken to a man like that before.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

Her eyes flashed open, but she refused to look at him. Lord only knew what sort of smile he was wearing. He probably liked teasing her, holding his experience over her head. “Not particularly. I’ve yet to meet one profound enough for my liking.”

His murmured “ _Ouch_ ,” was succinct enough to pierce her ears and her heart all in one fell swoop.

“Harry, that’s not what I-.”

“I know what you meant, Elizabeth.”

But from his cruel and biting tone, he clearly did not.

She turned to him, angling her body so that her back was to the sun. The line of his jaw was firm, locked tightly. His eyes everywhere but her. “I think you’re brilliant, easily the most interesting person I’ve ever known. But we’re friends. Perhaps if things were different or-.”

He still refused to look at her. “You don’t need to make excuses for your choices or feelings. Rather, your lack thereof. You don’t owe me anything.”

She owed him the truth. Everyone deserved that much. But even so, the truth was far more daunting than the lie. There was no lack of feeling on her part. She wasn’t in love with him by any stretch of the matter, but she felt _something_. Admitting that would bring him no solace, no peace. Admitting it only to still deny him what they both wanted would be wicked and unkind. It was better to preserve what little of his heart she could with this false reality she had crafted. Better to break his heart a little than shatter the entire thing. Better to knock it off a table rather than throw it against a wall.

“Do you have anything else you can tell me right now? About working men over?”

The corners of his mouth quelled up. “All in good time. For now, just remember that the world likes a chaste bunny from time to time. And, really, you’re it.” She knew that much. It wasn’t the first time she had been called as such. “But no woman is a hundred that way. No one is, truthfully. We’re all angels and devils. It’s push and pull; give and take. You gotta know when to push the bunny and pull the beast, yeah?”

Sometimes he spoke and his words went well over her head. All she could do was nod and look like she knew what he was talking about.

“Are ya watching?” He jammed his knee against hers gently.

Torn between saying yes and no, she decided not to give an answer at all. Either admit her troubles in tearing her eyes from him or be crass enough to crush his elated spirit. And for him to have just bounced back into grins and bubbled laughter, she was in no mood to ruin it. She didn’t exactly want to give him any level of false hope, though. Staying silent was her only option.

“Look how he watches her. Absolutely hooked and neither of ‘em has a clue. See?” His hand was flippant with the gesture towards the couple near the edge of the water.

The woman in a modest but alluring one-piece swimsuit of red, the middle cut out to expose the upper fraction of her stomach, a fanciful bow just under the line of her breasts. The man, who Elizabeth assumed was her lover based on fleeting touches and chaste kisses to the cheek, regarded her as she ventured into the ocean. All it took was one extended hand on her part and her partner was starting towards her. She swiped her hand across the water’s surface, spraying him with water, a deep-bellied laugh that chilled Elizabeth’s bones.

What was it like to be so intrinsically intimate with another person? To show them all your love and affection in the open, heart constantly there for the taking. Weren’t they afraid of bearing it all, only to lose everything? Was the joy of reaching the mountaintop weighted heavier than the fear of falling during the climb?

The warmth of Harry’s proximity was sending shockwaves across her skin. A ghost of his knee against hers. A brush of their pinky fingers in the wrinkle of the checkered blanket. How badly she wanted to reach the top of the mountain, slick rock edges to lose her grasp on and hidden crevices to twist her ankles in be damned. The insurmountable rush of reckless abandon and soaring gushes of candied bliss would be all the cushion she needed from the fall.

“Look at tha’.” Harry mumbled, head so close to hers she was sure he could feel the blood rushing around her veins. So close the curled edges of his hair tickled her shoulder and she wondered how it would feel to rake her fingers through the chocolate tresses. What it would be like to stare forever into those emerald eyes that haunted her dreams and know the passion of loving and the breathless of free-falling through cotton candy clouds into crystalline waves of unrelenting ecstasy.

When she did refocus her sight on the couple, for she couldn’t bear to meet the electric buzz that generated from Harry’s gaze, his eyes so glued to her that her skin swam, the doves that took residence in her stomach all flew upwards.

They were kissing. Arms locked around each other like safety nets and hands dug into pliant flesh. There was no chastity, all ardent grabs and squeezes and touches. Lips locked in a battle so intense, Elizabeth worried about their ability to breathe.

Was _that_ what she was missing?

Jesus goddamn Christ. She was a woman on fire. Every fiber of her being engrossed in hazy, filmed over rocket flares. Stardust indeed, shoulders tickled with his curls and her throat choked on the very air she couldn’t breathe in or out.

Had it been this warm all day?

“Golly,” she clambered to her feet in a manner completely foreign to her body, “a dip in the water seems like a lovely idea.” She cleared her throat twice before wiping clammed hands over the hips of her suit bottoms. If she didn’t escape this soon, she was going to throw all caution to the wind. Career and dreams but leaves in the breeze, the only steadfast the pillar in the form of a British lounge singer.

Harry looked up at her, brows pulled together in the sensing of her frustration and discomfort.

“Join me.” The words spoken once again before she’d ever thought of them. Or maybe she had thought them, deep in the place of her subconscious that infinitely longed for his close presence. For him.

He pulled himself to his feet. Silently asked with his eyes if she was fully sure of whatever this adventure would be. Elizabeth extended her hand as the only answer, breath seizing when he took it.

Blanket only mere feet from the edge of the shore, it was no time before chilled water met her feet.

“Swimmin’ in the winter, you’re gonna catch your death.” He told her. “God, what would Hollywood do then?”

“Suffer forevermore. Go to hell, most likely.”

Elizabeth had a strict rule about foul language. She never, ever used it in the presence of anyone. Howie was excluded, as he tended to be for most her rules. Her unexpected curse earned her a cheeky grin from her company.

“The bunny becomes a beast yet.”

He had no idea.

She went out further in the water, dragging him along behind her. By the time the water reached the cap of her knees, it was warm rather than cool. Harry remained close enough that she could sense him just centimeters, his chest to her back. She turned, feel smudgy in the wet sand.

She had always found something so enchanting about the ocean. It’s endless waters that stretched into forever. The fine line where deep blue met sky blue. The ocean was free. Untamable, never to be forged or caged or locked away. Free to be wholly and totally itself at all times. Calm, serene, buckling waves, dark depths, unknown. Unfathomable.

Elizabeth allowed herself the simples pleasure in reveling in Harry’s beauty. Corded muscle that stretched golden skin. Ripples and waves of his own physicality, much like the sea they stood in. Twin fern leaves that disappeared and reappeared at the sharp junctures of his hips. The fearless tiger peeking his thigh from beneath his swim shorts. An auspicious butterfly across the lower expanse of his sternum. Identical sparrows taking flight towards one another under his clavicle. Arms covered by a billion little trinkets of dark ink. A star. A sailboat. Letters and numbers. The anatomical heart that she wished was a representative embodiment of her own.

She was lost in his eyes when it happened. So overtaken by the myriad of possibilities he offered that her body was shaken down when the wave unfurled against her back. The violence of the motion sent her careening into Harry’s chest.

She pitched her arms out in the vain attempt of steadying herself, surprised by the shriek that escaped her. Her arms wound around Harry’s shoulders, his own roping her waist before the water swallowed them whole.

It was so much colder all at once.

It was so much better to dive right in.

Hands gripped her by the biceps and hauled her upright. Air jettisoned her, Harry’s hands working to push wet tendrils of hair back from her face.

His smile knocked her back. Wide, the dimples setting deep in his cheeks. Eyes alight and voracious. His own sopping hair limp against his head, curls beginning to spiral up.

“There we go.” He pushed the last piece of hair from her face to behind her ear. “Bit of a fall we took, wasn’t it? You all right?”

No. Yes. Maybe?

Berry pink lips shaped like Cupid’s heart. Plush, inviting. Enticing. Water cooled hands cupped her neck, thumbs resting on her jaw. She flicked her gaze up, his own eyes locked on her mouth. Her breath hitched in her throat when his thumb grazed to her earlobe. Fingers curled in the wet mess of her hair. Something akin to the blazes of a wildfire set in the deepest part of her belly.

_I wonder what his mouth tastes like._

“Little flower, I-.”

She stepped back from him, mouth suddenly sour at the sight of the people-dotted shoreline. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too many almost slips and near misses. Too much danger. “We should head out soon. You have work tonight.”

His hands still paused in the air, reminiscent of his faded grasp against her. Fingers curled in the reluctance of letting her go. His eyelids fluttered, “Didn’t even need my help with this whole mess. Doin’ just dandy with it.”

If people had animals locked inside of them, Elizabeth’s was nowhere near that of a resigned bunny rabbit. A fox. A lioness. Something bewitching and elegant, striking and dangerous, deadly. Fatal. Zealous.

Stuck somewhere between earth and the heavens, his reach was never long enough to grasp her. Ethereal. Magic. The goddess among mortals for all to revel. The beast men hid from and flocked to all the same.

As hard as she tried to hide whatever brutish creature, he saw right through her charade. It appeared in fractals, moments of white-hot anger when her eyes became nothing but black holes to drown in, face searing with emblazoned wrath. There had never been anything pliable or mild about Elizabeth Dandridge. She only fronted to placate whatever audience dared to feast upon her.

He pitied the soul who ever found themselves in her crossfire. There would be no returning from that battle.

Sunday one of the two nights he had off from the lounge, he chose to spend it in her company. Rather, she graced him with her presence. When he got the call from the concierge that a guest was on the way up, Elizabeth was the last person he expected to open the door to.

“You aren’t at all who you say, are you?” He mused to her back, caught in her admiration of the painting next to the window. A window from which the white HOLLYWOOD sign could be seen on the mountainside.

Elizabeth faced him, arms hugged around her chest in thought. “On the contrary,” she retorted, “I am _precisely_ who I say.”

An excellent actress indeed. Adamant in her role of the perfect, peaceful, acquiescent, and kittenish young woman. So much that it was all anyone saw. All because she wanted it so. Her power over humankind remained unmatched.

Yet, he saw. Buried far beneath her seemingly clarion mask, it lingered there. The monster. Teeth bared and claws extended. Muzzled and chained. Mad, hungry, deluded with starvation. Locked away in a cage of pearl bars and gossamer flooring; concealed through coquette smiles, fluttered lashes, honeysuckle laughs. So far below her surface perhaps she had forgotten its existence. But who could forget a creature like that?

“I see the ravenous beast lurking behind your gaze, Elizabeth. The rest of the world may be oblivious to your dangers, but I’m not.”

Whatever defense he expected was lost. She gave none. No sort of _you don’t know me and don’t pretend you do_ attitude. Only an appreciative hum, lips pressed together in dense thought.

Yes, there was a beast. She could deny it all she wanted but he would never close his eyes to it.

“You’re quite vicious, I believe.”

Her eyebrows shot up at his remark. The idea so unheard of in her mind. She did see herself as the world did. If his level of confidence had been lower, he would have second-guessed himself.

“I’ve never been anything close to impolite or imprudent in my life, Mr. Styles, let alone vicious.” She shot back. The words harbored on the edge of unkind, full of snake oil politeness and calm demeanor.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at her behavior. In her attempt to hide the natural truth, it came seeping out. “I never said you behaved in such a manner, only that you were. You’ve done extraordinarily well in repressing your most human behavior.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded, folding his arms over his chest. What a magnificent person he had the pleasure of knowing. To unwrap and unravel in his own manner. Maybe if he reached her darkest depths and deciphered all her secrets and treasures, he would know why she hid what she so plainly felt. Why she denied any sort of outward pleasure in life. Why she denied him.

“Yes, it is.” He told her. The siren to his sailor; she demanded an answer and he was happy to oblige her with one. “You’re a vicious beast when it comes down to it and you’ve hidden it all these years with pretty words and those doe eyes of yours. You’ve given the world an angel instead of a devil but, you’ve starved yourself of everything you could need. A starving angel is far worse than a contented devil.”

Contented devils were go-lucky, carefree, wild as the wind. Unburdened by anything other than their freewill and desire. Starving angels were deranged, feral, worse than anything. Mad enough to reach the extremes for their purposes and notions. Unable to be tempered or pacified from their years of famine.

Her arms fell from around her, cage unlocked. A shrapnel of her soul for the taking. “I don’t want to be a devil.”

He took the step needed to be right before her. “Darling, no one ever wants to be what they are.” Was that not the point of life? The struggle against the predestined current. The fight of fate.

“And how do you suppose I feed my devil, then?” She whispered, chin lilted back to look him in the eye.

Each moment of eye contact sent his nerves in a flurry. The universe inside of her stared back at him, home only to the lingering beast waiting to carve his heart from his chest. He would let it. Happily and readily when the time came. The beast would lunge and Harry would lay back and bare himself for the repast. How could he not, if it would feed and nourish her?

His bright, burning sun. His stardust supernova starlet.

Not his.

No one’s.

“The same as we all do. With pleasure.”

The spell, if there ever had been one, broke with his words. Elizabeth’s smile laconic and bemused at the same time. “How hedonistic of you.”

“Life’s about enjoying the things that make you feel good. What makes you feel good, Elizabeth Dandridge?”

She stilled. Hesitated. For once, the snappy response out of reach. Had no one ever asked? Had anyone ever cared enough to know? Had she ever let them?

No. Maybe. And no.

God help the man who gave his heart to her.

God help Harry.

“Being at home.” She finally said, shattering all his hopes of a proper, grisly response. “I do need to be on my way. Another time?”

“Of course.”

He showed her from the room, wished her a safe travel home. As soon as the door was shut, he laid his head against it, curls cushioning the impact. Two days swimming in her decadent sunbeams, two days encased in her tempting grazes; midnight laughs ringing in his ears; jelly smiles burning behind his eyelids.

_What makes you feel good, Elizabeth Dandridge?_

And if the world were less cruel and her heart more open, more welcoming, she would have said _You, Harry Styles._


	7. seven: hollywood

Her only dream was to see her name in shining lights. Luminous, radiant, incandescent and endless until the world fell away into dust. Maybe even thereafter.

Her name would be the lasting piece of time,  _ Elizabeth Dandridge _ .

She had been climbing her way to that precipice for years. Focusing all her willpower and determination into analyzing films and the accent, the movements and the stares. Moving to Hollywood from a small Texas island town with nothing but sheer conviction and all the money she’d saved up from half-assed sewing. Marching into Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios every day for a month before Louis Mayer agreed to meet with her. Acing that meeting and convincing Mr. Mayer to sign her for a seven-year contract, a good bet considering he had just let go a handful of his best actresses.  _ Elegance of First Contact  _ had been her first claim to fame. The picture that shot her name into the sky among the brightest stars, but still it was overshadowed.  _ Flight Star  _ had been a slightly less successful film, but all the critics agreed that her skill was to be exalted and she would do greater things.

_ Twisted Mystic  _ was going to do it for her. It would launch her so far beyond the other stars, she would outshine them. She could feel it deep in her bones. This was it.

“You look magnificent.”

Gregory was walking towards her. Not totally out of place in his tan trench coat and matching fedora hat. They were, after all, doing a shoot for the advertisement posters.

Elizabeth glanced down at the costume she was given. A slinky black dress with a provocative deep neckline. The straps were thin, draped over her shoulders in a loose fashion. And though the poster print wouldn’t show it, the whole dress was adorned with shimmering sparkles. It was to be matched by a black boa to wrap her shoulders with, but she hadn’t seen hide or hair of it.

“Gracious,” she feigned a delighted smile- no one’s compliments made her feel quite like a certain singer’s- “thank you. You don’t think it’s a bit much? I was rather shocked at the neckline.” It was only her pure force of will that kept her breasts from making an appearance. God, what a scene that would be. Not even fit for the film.

“It’s very Vivian Burbank.” Gregory laughed quietly. “Speaking of, you were a revelation this week in filming. Not that you aren’t always wonderful but-.”

“Thank you.” She cut off his rambling. “Something last week just felt off to me and I realized I was doing a poor job of executing Vivian’s depth.”

She would  _ never  _ admit to overhearing Freeman and Rush rake her over the coals last Friday or Paul’s own warning. Just as she would never admit to the weekend help she received from Harry. She couldn’t take complete credit for her turnaround, not like any other time. Some of it was owed to Harry. Surprisingly, she didn’t mind sharing it with him.

_ You’re a vicious beast. _

_ What makes you feel good, Elizabeth Dandridge? _

She spent the past five days out of his orbit. His gravity pulled her too hard, too fast and left her breathless and wanting more of his suffocating freedom. He never came by or called or asked after her. Either he gave up or-.

The first option was just too horrendous to think of, as much as she needed it to happen. And even if he relented, some sick, masochistic part of her knew she would crawl to him over broken glass. Painful as it was to admit, she needed him for some reason. The freedom he allowed her overshadowed the loneliness she had hidden her entire life. Masked it with strenuous activity and drive to achieving each of her goals, loneliness only ever appeared as fervent initiative. It was only in the catapult of Harry’s existence into her life that she recognized it for what it was.

“We were all gonna head to the Midnight Lounge tonight, do you want to join us?”

The Midnight Lounge.

Harry.

She should say no. Stay as far from him as possible. Her feelings were hard enough to hide from him, she couldn’t imagine the work it would take to conceal them from the people she worked with.

“I’d love to.”

Gregory offered to pick her up, but she declined the offer. He said they all planned to meet around seven-thirty and she already had the mind to show up at six. Harry said he liked to get there an hour early and the club was never worth much of a crowd until right before he performed.

“Let’s get some shots, people!”

She slipped her hand around Gregory’s elbow as they walked to the backdrop. Painted with a train under an old rickety house. The photographer directed her to stand right in front of Gregory, just a bit diagonal, face forward.

Elizabeth photographed well, she knew that. Delicate features poised perfectly. Hair done up in voluminous curls. Lips dashed over with bright red rouge. All at once, she was herself and nothing like it.

“Here we go. Your boa just arrived.”

That…It was not a boa.

A boa constrictor, yes. A feather boa, no.

“Oh, holy mackerel.” She mumbled.

“Jumping jalopies, a snake!” Gregory squeezed her arm.

The assistant with the green, grey, and brown scaled creature continued to walk towards them. Even as she shrank back against Gregory’s chest and wished with all her might that he was someone else. Someone with velvet curls and plush pink lips, emerald ocean eyes, body swathed in mysterious tattoos.

“Elizabeth?” The assistant drew to a stop a few steps from her. “It’s only for a few minutes while we get some shots, okay?”

Tim, his name was Tim.

She drew a shaking breath. “I didn’t- no one said anything about a snake. A real snake.”

Had they? No. She would have remembered that. The snake for the movie was fake. Or so they said. They hadn’t made it that far in filming yet.

“Women are so skittish with animals, you know.” Tim the assistant passed off to Gregory in mild discourse. “Happens all the time.

Elizabeth was not skittish. She wasn’t some nervous child afraid of her first day of school or a cricket. This was a snake for Christ’s sake. A real, living, breathing, slithering snake. And it was looking right at her with tiny marble eyes. Watching her, taking her in. Not so unlike the way Harry tended to observe her.

Harry.

_ Be brave, little flower _ .

That’s what he would have said to her. Had he been present, he would have told her to be brave. Show them she wasn’t some weak woman afraid of a snake. She was Elizabeth goddamn Dandridge; she wasn’t afraid of anything.

She peeled away from Gregory, who seemed just as shaken by the snake’s arrival as she was and brandished her shoulders. She pushed the curls to her back and pointed her chin out. “Lay it on me. I’m all right. It’s only a little snake, right?”

“Oh, God, you wouldn’t believe it! I just did it, Harry!” She threw her arms in the air, face wild with abandon. The curls from the poster shoot still secured in her tresses, a black dress unlike anything he ever thought to picture her in dancing off her body and sending his mind into fuzzy fractals of parched thoughts. “I walked right up to him and said,  _ lay it on me. It’s only a little snake, right _ ? A snake! I had a real snake on my shoulders!”

The last thing Harry expected to see when arriving to the lounge at his usual time of six sharp was Elizabeth standing outside his dressing room. Clad in a dress of black serpentine, shoulders covered by a black fur wrap, still done up in the painstakingly ravenous makeup from a photo shoot he would have given his left lung to witness. Light rouge on her cheeks, stinging red on her mouth, dark eyes made even more so by black swishes over her eyelids.

“You should have seen their faces, Harry! No one thought I had the nerve for it because I was a woman and even Gregory was frightened of the thing!”

To see her so alive and raw in excited animation, to breathe the same air as she did with prim walls down; once carefully composed hands at her sides now bursting with dynamism. Harry was knocked back by her sudden and unaware decision to reveal her true form. And maybe also her cherry red lips and bounced curls.

His heart galloped along as a racehorse during the final stretch of a race. In awe of her magnetic energy and breathless smile as she continued to recount her claim of courage from earlier in the day.

“-and I just had to come early so I could tell you all about it and-.”

He snapped back into focus, pried himself away from admiring each brush of stardust on her cheeks. She showed up early, just to share something special with him. To revel in her fearlessness alongside him. “You came early, just to tell me?”

He was getting somewhere.  _ They _ were getting somewhere.

Her tongue darted out to swipe over her lips. For a fraction of a second, he worried she was going to shut down, turn away from him and the vulnerability as she was so prone to do. She didn’t.

“I had this moment, right before I agreed to take the snake. I was terrified, you know. Of the animal and letting them all down, being a failure, having them upset. And then I heard your voice in my head.”

His voice. His.

“You told me to be brave. So, I was.”

He had to wrap his hand around the metal rod of his clothing rack to keep from keeling over. She was going to be the death of him. The reason his heart found itself on the floor, trodden and mashed. He was all right with that so long as she was the one to do so.

She impaled him with her sharp knife deeper and deeper by the day.

“ _ Mon cœur saignant est à toi. Prends-le. S’il vous plaît _ .” He sighed.

Her head cocked to the side, as it did whenever he spoke the language she didn’t understand. “What does that mean?”

“Means I’m proud of ya.” The lie came out, clenching his heart and scraping his throat.

She nodded, sage and understanding. His deception clean over her pretty head and washed away as the mood dissipated. If only the truth didn’t terrify her.

“Can I take you somewhere tomorrow night?” The question bulleted through him.

He was quickly learning to never get what he expected from her. Steaming hot and ice cold, there was never a guarantee. Always on his toes, always caught off-guard. The puppet master swinging him along as he let her do so with a doped grin and open chest.

But tomorrow was Saturday. His busiest night. His last working night of the week before slow Tuesday came around. The club always filled up on Saturdays, dames and brutes alike. The women came for him and the men came for the women. Money was money, Franklin would say, no matter its reason for attendance.

“I work tomorrow night.” Surely, she knew that. Perhaps she forgot that first conversation where they’d delved into their jobs, but he didn’t pin her as a type to ever forget a thing. He could blow it off. Call in sick and play hooky so he could soak up this time she so willingly offered him. Who knew when it would happen again?

Elizabeth produced the sweetest modicum of giggled laughter. She was in rare form. How long would it last? “I know that, you cod. I meant after you were done.” At eleven at night? He asked to make sure. She had to know how late his shifts went into the night. “I’m aware, and it’s the perfect time. Swing by my house after, all right?”

She left him in a misted haze of floral perfume, gentle  _ clack  _ of her heels, shimmer of the way her dress moved when she walked. The divinely wanton caress of her lips against his cheek as she walked by him.

What the goddamn hell just happened?

Elizabeth surveyed the newly finished sunroom. Crystal clear walls of iron and glass that gave view to the back lawn where the pool was still empty, the chaises covered by tarp. Beyond it, the dead grass and mounds of dirt finally cleared and laid over with fresh soil and patches of new grass seed. The soon-to-be garden was caged by white wrought iron, not wholly fenced into one shape but winding and curving for a wonderland-esque appeal.

The sunroom had just been completed yesterday, movers having arrived after the contractors finished to set up the furniture she had ordered months prior. Two berry purple velvet chairs paired each by a matching ottoman. Brown leather sofa backed to the wall outlooking the back lawn. Each piece of sitting furniture arranged with a black wood side table. Two curved lamps on either end of the sofa, six hanging orbs of light dangling from the ceiling. A brand-new telephone on a table by the door. Hanging plants and potted flowers arrayed throughout. Grandfather clock on the other side of the door, chiming three times.

“Ready to go?”

Howie poked his head into the room, body curved from behind the door.

“Mhmm. Just admiring the room.”

Other than her bedroom and the makeshift one she’d set up for Howie at the start of the year, the sunroom, kitchen, foyer and sitting room were the only rooms complete in the whole house. Progress felt good, even if it came slow.

“Nursery closes in a few hours. And we both know how long you take when you’re in the flowers.”

Not that he was wrong. She did love being among the flowers.

The ride into town and then out further to the nursery was filled with sharp silence, punctured only by the sound of Howie’s whistling tunes. Off-key and off-kilter, he didn’t seem to mind. The tune resonated in her ears, flowing into her head and bringing up the image of Harry. He had a poor habit of speaking French and saying things she didn’t understand. She had no way of knowing what he said or if the answers he gave were truthful. All she knew was that the words sounded so heavenly coming from his mouth in a glazed tongue she couldn’t translate.

By the time Howie parked in front of the nursery, her mind was swimming in reels of her singer. Sun glistening off water droplets on his skin as he clambered from the ocean, curled locks stuck to his forehead. Rippling tattoos that glided in dark ink across his skin. How he stood on his stage and gripped his microphone stand for dear life.

It was with him in mind that she searched among the flowers for additions to her garden. Brilliant green Gerbera Daisies. Honey-dazzling Aconites. Indigo shaded star Asters. Lemon yellow Buttercups. Troves of stunning white Heliotropes. Sunset orange Marigolds. Ranunculus’ and Scarlet Sages, Spring. Snowflakes and Windflowers. Zinnias. Diascias. Gazanias.

Somehow every flower brought a newer, hypnotizing picture of Harry.

“Got enough?” Howie teased as a worker loaded everything onto a truck-bed to be delivered to the house.

Her garden would be overflowing with a rainbow of colors. The way her house soon would be. The way Harry made her feel.

“Not hardly.” She whispered, not quite answering his question, rather answering one of her one utilizing the same words as his.

_ Will you ever have enough of Harry Styles? _

Not hardly. Never.

The hours had never gone by in so decrepit a manner. With the promise of seeing her at the end of his shift looming over his heart, Harry found it difficult to focus on anything. His brain became a heap of mashed potatoes when he sat down and tried to write a song. Fingers fumbled when he attempted to work the melody over on his guitar. Nothing brought peace. Nothing brought ease of mind.

By the middle of the day, head so rattled with nerves and biting excitement, he pushed one last effort onto himself.

The public library was dead silent. Desolate save for himself, the elderly librarian behind the desk, and a group of university students poured over books. From his last trip, he knew where the books on flowers were. A few turns to the left, then the right and at the end of the nook. A small shelf perfectly positioned next to a reading chair. At random, he chose a book and set to work. The last book he’d read had explored the basic, beginner’s guide to caring for flowers. This one seemed to delve deeper into the differing types of wildflowers, where they could be found, how to domesticate them. Specifically, as the title gave way,  _ Texas Wildflowers _ .

When the clock rang five times, he decided it was a day well spent. He’d only made it half-through the wildflower book, having read each passage twice over to make sure he was understanding it all correctly.

He had everything he needed in the boot of his car. Guitar, change of clothes for whatever the occasion called for, blanket. Anything he could think of for this mystery she was leading him on. All he had to do was make it through a four-hour singing shift.

Four hours that dredged by in aching, pain-staking dreariness. An hour of mind-boggled rehearsing and preparation. A full house in the lounge, every seat taken, even at the bar where Wally would be slammed all night long. Business for the Midnight Lounge was booming. Harry hoped Franklin could pay his debt sooner rather than later and finally get Lloyd Claymont off his-.

Claymont.

Elizabeth.

_ He was only asking after my dress is all _ .

A stone-cold lie if he’d ever heard one. A thought that hadn’t passed through him in the moment, his brain too bejeweled by her ambrosial arrival into his life. So occupied by the state of her being he hadn’t at all noticed the shortest lived trace of fear fading from her eyes. 

Sour air filled his lungs at the thought of his  _ belle fleur  _ mixed up with a loan shark like that. He would give every note to his name to free her from the weight of whatever her debt. Put himself into a similar one just to save her.

As if she had ever needed saving.

When the hours were sliced into intervals, twenty minutes of performing and ten to break, he did the only thing he could. He thought of her. That first night they met, the first time their eyes met. When the world faded to nothing and his voice, his one constant, failed him in her presence. The siren smile she gave him. The facts and divots in her shield, begging him to break her open and rejoice in her venom, candy center.

When, on the penultimate break before his last set of the night, his eyes fell upon the menacing figure of his flower’s troubles, Harry did the only thing he could think of. Two minutes to spare before the last set of minutes that kept him from his serenity and sacred salvation. He placed himself in the way of one Lloyd Claymont. A man who towered over all with watered blue eyes, pale blond curled moustache, and cigar between thin lips.

“Mr. Styles, you-.”

“Listen real goddamn close, pal. Stay the fuck away from my girl, hear?”

Harry wasn’t one for aggression or violence but the thought of Elizabeth in peril sent him torpedoing out of self-control. He had no worries of his own safety or life, only hers. No fucker was going to lay a hand on her.

“I think you forget-.”

“I’m not forgetting shit. I ever hear or see you near Elizabeth again, money’ll be the least of your issues.” He jerked his head to the door. “Get the fuck outta here.”

At exactly eleven-twenty-six, the knocker echoed three times throughout the house.

Elizabeth, having already triple-checked her appearance to ensure the cream turtleneck and navy trousers matched together. Her hair had yet to shake the rapturous curls from yesterday’s shoot and she opted to leave them free.

She waited a half a second before pulling open the door. Heart cinched, pummeled, and revering at the sight of him. Curls tousled by wind and shoulders stretching a brown leather jacket. His eyes traveled from her face down to her toes.

“Never seen ya in trousers. Look good.”

She made it a habit to only wear them at home. But this night expedition required a change in apparel. Hence the brown slip-on lace-up shoes she’d dug from the back of her closet.

“Ready?” He prompted. “Can I get a hint before you go draggin’ me off in the dark? You know bodies make for prime fertilizer?”

Elizabeth grabbed her coat and swiped the wicker basket from the side of the door. “It’s a surprise.” She smiled before stepping out the door. “You strike me as someone who loves surprises.”

“ _ Tu étais la meilleure surprise que la vie puisse me donner _ .” Velvet words she couldn’t begin to comprehend constructed his response. Whatever he’d said, she was sure it was passionate and full of heartbreaking sweetness. “What’s in the basket, flower?”

He pulled open the passenger door of his butter yellow convertible and took the basket from her as she climbed in. He was careful putting in the backseat, and she was glad for it. It had taken her forever to put it all together.

“Food. And wine.”

His eyebrows shot up as he filed in and started the car. “Don’t tell me you cooked.”

The playful smirk was not to be fended off, however she remained silent on the matter. If the food made him sick, she wouldn’t admit to having cooked it.

“You stun me every goddamn day, y’know that? Killer-fuckin-diller. Lead the way, supernova.”

His rhetoric and vernacular were continuous in throwing her off-kilter. Substantially calm and sweet before bursts of searing auroras broke the shell. The morning sun breaking day only to set on the horizon immediately after.

The whiplash he gave her was jarring and unshakeable. She hated it and craved it all the same.

Her eyes wavered to his bowed hand over the gearshift as they drove through the night. Roads clear and dead of life were the safety net she had been aching for. No one to see. No one to hear. Unable to tear her eyes from his profile, her earlier reels of him connected and conjoined with the current picture of him.

“I planted my garden today with flowers that reminded me of you.” How easily did the truth spill from her lips. How maddeningly he coaxed it from her. How willingly she gave it over without having to be asked.

“I read a book about wildflowers in Texas.” He replied. “Pictured you in a big field of lantanas, butterflies and bumblebees dancing ‘round ya.”

Though the idea- his conjuration of it more than anything- was darling, her nose wrinkled at the thought. The butterflies and the bees sounded nice. The lantanas…not so much. Her skin crawled, nose stuffing.

“I’m allergic.” She told him. Her chest swam with congestion and her skin prickled red. Not a pretty sight at all.

“To bees or butterflies?”

She shook her head, “The lantanas. I get horrible rashes and can’t breathe well.”

“Firewheels, then. A field of firewheels, bees, and butterflies.”

Firewheels it was.

They spent the rest of the drive in a pleasing silence. Harry drumming melodies with his fingers against the dash, she listening in the vain effort to recall the tune. It wasn’t until they reached the destination that she realized he was creating it all his own.

“Wicked spot, firewheel, but, uh, I was expecting…more.” Harry stalled the car, looking around at the area where the road ended and melted into a wooded path. “Unless…Elizabeth Dandridge, are you trying to get me to park with you? I’m a man of high morals, I’ll have you know.”

Only Harry would leap to that absurd reasoning. She shook her head, giving no verbal response. Grabbing her coat and the basket, she got out of the car. “Come on, we’re losing night time.”

He popped the boot of his car and produced that loving checkered blanket and a weathered guitar. Somehow, the fact that he played didn’t surprise her in the least.

“Lead the way.” He gestured to the dirt path.

Without a second thought, she extended her hand. His eyes flickered to the offering and then her face before sliding their hands together. The buzz of static that permeated through her was becoming a welcome and indulged visitor.

_ What makes you feel good, Elizabeth Dandridge? _

If she’d been bolder, braver, less worried about the risk and the danger and everything else, she would have said,  _ You, you make me feel good, Harry Styles. _

Having made the trek several times in the past three years, Elizabeth knew exactly where she was going. Every so often, Harry mumbled an inquiry about their direction, if she was leading him to certain death, when they could eat, if she’d really made the food. His questions made the twenty-minute hike bearable and shorter in the illusion of fluid time.

“You really picked up a bunch of flowers ‘cause you couldn’t shake me from your dome?”

Elizabeth pushed past the thicket of pale Pearly Everlastings and stood back to give him a clear view of the magical scene she had promised.

“No shit?” His head whipped back to her before once again overlooking the grandiose secret she had kept only for herself the last three years. “Not pullin’ my leg?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never brought anyone else here before.”

He pulled her forward onto the short plateau of land. The only barrier between then and the world below eight letters the size of giants. The streetlights of their mystic city only blips, peaceful silence all around. Blankets of wildflowers and bushes to cover them from the tower of the mountain peak and any sneaking gods that lay in wait.

“What do you think?” She questioned. Judging purely from the awed slack of his jaw, he was impressed.

He wasted no time laying out the blanket, positioning his guitar just so on the edge. He snatched the basket from her grip and gestured for her to sit. The world was ending soon with the hurry he made in laying out the sliced fruit she bought that morning, along with the still warm roast she’d attempted. Two thin-stemmed wine glasses poured near full of the deep red Petit Verdot that had been a gift from Paul and Mr. Mayer after  _ Flight Star  _ finished filming.

“I have to tell you something.”

Harry glanced up from cleaning his plate clear of the roast. “Hit me with it. I know you made this roast. It’s good as shit. Why’d you say you were bad in the kitchen?”

Tasting good and being all right to eat weren’t close to the same thing, but she accepted the compliment, nevertheless. She pushed her plate to him, insisting she wasn’t hungry enough to eat. With a wary glance, he accepted her offer.

“Everyone was beside themselves with my performance during filming this week.” She began, fingers gnawing at the cuticle of her thumb. “They all said I did magnificent. Even Freeman told me how impressed he was with my portrayal of Vivian.”

By the time she was done, he had cleared her plate as well. He tossed it in the basket and scooted closer to her. “You were aces?”

“Across the board.” She nodded resolutely.

He threw his arms around her, pulling her close. Whispering affirmations and caramel nothings into her ear. Decadent, delicious words that pulled the strings of her stomach tight, sending those doves in a furious flight; sent her heart tumbling off the edge of a cliff she didn’t know she was on until it was too late. Intermingled English and French tied together, all she knew was his pride and joy and warm breath against her cheek, her ear.

“It was mostly you.” She breathed, relenting herself to his embrace. Savoring the smell of citrus shampoo. “I couldn’t have done it without you. You made me brave.”

_ Be brave, little flower _ .

She inched back from him, his chin scraping across her shoulder in the process. His fingers never relinquishing their dug in pressure, hands still splayed warm across her back. It was just enough of an adjustment that his face remained only a centimeter from hers.

“’Lizabeth…” Not a whine or a moan or a hiss. A breath, savory, tantalizing, beguiling. Ruinous.

She stiffened, clearing her throat and moving back further. His eyes darted open, pupils blown, only a thin ring of green to be spotted. “Why did you bring your guitar?”

As quick as the heat came, it was gone. Replaced by the familiar tug she experienced when he grinned. “Ah, I made you something. Sit back and open those ears, supernova.”

She did as instructed. In truth, thankful for the needed space between them. The only men she had ever kissed were Gregory Peck and Ronald Reagan, who’d guest-starred on  _ Flight Star  _ while on temporary leave from the war. Those had been for work, nothing more. She didn’t even count them. Kissing Harry…it would lead to an intimacy from which she nor her career would ever recover.

His fingers moved in a fashion unlike anything she’d ever seen as they skittered over the wire-thin strings. The melody was easily recognizable as the one he had been drumming on the car’s dash. Not a habit, simply a memory device. There were no words, only a cacophony of notes strung together in beautiful melody.

“Call it  _ Stardust _ ,” he said over the final note, “I was thinkin’ a you when I played it out for the first time. D’ya like it?”

How could she not? A tune entirely for her, crafted with her in mind. A secret only between them. All he ever did was amaze her and turn her insides to jelly. Brain a scattered mess and heart a traitor.

“How is it that everyone else expects perfection from me and you don’t?” She sighed, laying back on the blanket. She crooked her arm back and nestled her head in the bend of her elbow. It was as though Harry saw one person inside her and the world saw another. A devil and an angel, except she wasn’t sure which she wanted to be. Which was the real Elizabeth.

“I’m not an idiot.” He gave up to her. His guitar leaned upright against the basket, he laid down next to her. Knees in the air, arm behind his head. “I never expect you to be anything than what you are. And no one is perfect.”

She wished someone had said that to her sooner. When she was young and decided perfection was the only route for her. When she made it her life’s mission to be the best actress to ever grace the silver screen. Maybe if someone had told that girl that perfection was impossible, she would have believed them.

Then again, if they did and she had, she wouldn’t be there at that very moment in time. Harry’s hand brushing against hers, the heat from his body dancing close to her skin. If time could be captured, moments bottled and saved, she would have picked this one.

“Everyone else expects nothing but from me. The world believes in the innate perfection of Elizabeth Dandridge.” She scoffed. People were so easily fooled by a pretty face and prettier words. Hadn’t that been how men in the old Greek tales died? Lured to their deaths by the song of the monster at sea. Envisioning a beautiful mermaid and instead realizing, only too late, that the sirens were horrid and putrid. “Why don’t you?”

Harry shifted to his side, propping himself on his elbow. Prompted by his turn, she did the same, once again coming face to face with the features of her impending doom. “And fall into that sick Venus trap you’ve laid? Fuck that.” She swatted him for the suggestion, earning a hearted chuckle that fueled deep in her stomach. “To be real, the world and I see you in two completely different ways, love. To them, you’re a face who brings characters to life they see on a screen. You’re an actress and you can be a flawless god because that’s all they see. They don’t see  _ you _ .”

Everything he said was right. There was no denying the shallow way the world devoured her essence. Part of a world only an elite few ever truly saw. Picturesque and impeccable at all times because that was how she was supposed to seem.

It was how she did appear. She made sure of that, had since she was a child that fateful day at the cinema. To be perfect, she had to seem perfect. No one had ever seen through her charade before. No one had ever seen  _ her _ before.

“And you do? You see me?” She let her eyes flick down to his lips. Unintentional was the way they rested there, unable to part from the pink promise of melted desire.

“Look at me, Elizabeth.” He breathed. Motioned for her to lift her eyes. There was no amusement in his, only stern, sincere grace. “I’ve seen you since the second I laid eyes on you. I know what you’re hiding behind those angel eyes. And unlike those unlucky fuckers, I know you’re human. Humans aren’t perfect so I sure as shit never expected you to be.”

She swallowed the burgeoning lump in her throat before once again looking to his mouth.

Friends kissed friends. She had kissed Gregory plenty of times. And the Reagan fellow as well. For movies, but was life not a movie? Were they all not actors on the stage of earth? Hiding behind roles and false sentiments.

There was no hiding with Harry.

_ I never expect you to be anything other than what you are _ .

What was she, if not an actress? If not the angel the world expected? Who was Elizabeth Dandridge? When the shell finally cracked and the devil, the beast came creeping out, what would she be in the end?

_ Whatever he wants, you’ll be whatever he wants. _

She and Harry were friends. And friends kissed friends.

He inched closer, closer until she could feel the snort of his breath against her mouth. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding away in her chest. If he asked, she’d rip it out and give it to him.

“’Lizabeth-.”

“Please don’t say anything.”

When his fingers weaved in her hair and tugged her close to the point of their noses touching. She didn’t know hands could be so rough and soft simultaneously. When her breath hitched in her throat and she palmed his chest to find some tether to the physical realm. She was floating, head spinning and heart soaring.

The ghost touch of his lips against hers.

And when his guitar crashed to the ground and she jumped back, the heat of seventeen suns kindling all over her body.

What the fuck just happened?

Her mouth, having been flooded with salivation just seconds ago, was dry. Tongue heavy. Her clothes were too warm, too tight. The world all of a sudden too much. She could have blamed it on the wine, if she’d had more than sip. But no. It was Harry.

“We should probably go.” Her voice hoarse with flushed desire. “It’s late.”

If hearts broke in pieces, several shards of her own fell away at the sight of his face. She didn’t appreciate sadness on anyone and his half-lidded eyes, downturned mouth, and slump of his shoulders was downright mournful.

“ _ Un jour, je connais le gout de tes lèvres contre les miennes. _ ”

She didn’t have to ask to know his words were trodden with melancholia. She had to fight to keep hers from sounding the same.


	8. eight: a cold hallelujah

It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it came as a hurricane.

Harry’s gentle prodding of sun-kissed daydreams, remnant of his new knowledge of Texan wildflowers coalesced shamelessly with memories she fought to keep buried.

Hurricanes.

There’d been only two of the threat since her move to California. Each a harbinger of bad tidings. Each only bringing heavy rainfall. They didn’t make hurricanes like that in Texas. There seemed to be several each season, all worse than the previous. All chalked up to that tiny island town of Port Aransas. And it wasn’t until those two Californian storms that Elizabeth remembered the paralyzing spread of fear that had overtaken her each time a storm threatened to flood them all into oblivion.

The only constant hope being the everlasting monument that was the Lydia Ann Lighthouse. Shining her beacon across the sea and beyond, that swiveling light foreseeable from the window of the bedroom she and Howie had once shared.

It all seemed so far off now, a foggy dream she didn’t quite remember having. The tender bubble of blood that bloomed at the tip of her finger each time she attempted to sew. Dirt and mud caked under crescent nails because burrowing in the dirt was the closest semblance to digging her way out of that town she could get. The slap of a yardstick against her palms each time she spoke out to question the existence of God Almighty, for why on earth did bad things happen to good people if God existed? What God poured hellfire down on his people and called it mercy? Peeking around the corner to see Howie steal a gulp of off-limits sauce from their father’s private stash. Having barely enough food to stave off their hunger and still sharing it with the neighbors.

Port Aransas and her childhood, Mother Katharine’s School for Girls, the smell of fresh bloomed Calla Lilies, and the sight of her mother making two identical birthday cakes.

_ Do you ever miss home _ , Harry had asked her that first night.

Of course, she said yes because what person didn’t miss home? Anyone normal would have said yes and gushed about their technicolor rearing and how fond they were of the life and history they left behind.

Elizabeth wasn’t normal. She never had been.

If he were to ask again, she would supply the truth. The stern  _ no  _ a gust of relief. It was all black and white in her mind, the only color arising the day she kicked dust behind her feet and never looked back. Sight so vehemently set on Hollywood, she never stopped to think of her repercussions.

Then again, she never had back then.

Water and dirt. Her only escapes from the torture of normalcy. The fear of blending in when she was destined to rise above. Fresh, inviting saltine ocean air intermixed with the swell of the water around her as she ventured further and further towards the depths of the unknown, to make it known to only her. Compact dirt reduced to nothing but crumbs beneath her fingers as she dug and made a home for a green stem out of a hole, conscripting nature to her will in the attempt to create something beautiful for her sake.

If lanky stems could grow and flourish into bewildering flowers in Aransas, by God, so would she.

And she did.

All it took was the rejection of whatever life everyone else had planned out for her. No, she would not accept the notion of a God she didn’t care to believe in. No, she would not prick her finger seventy times a day for seventy years. No, she would not sign her life over to Gerald Finchly- who shipped out the same day as Howie and didn’t know he wouldn’t live to see the Lydia Ann Lighthouse ever again- and be resigned to a plain life of having babies and burning herself on a stove and sharing a bed with a man who chewed with his mouth open and palmed her like he owned her.

Didn’t they know she could never be owned?

_ If I don’t get out now, I never will. And I can’t bear to live my life as some poor Texas housewife, trapped on this God-forsaken island forever. I refuse to turn into you. _

The point of leaving was to never look back.

And she never did.

There were a handful of places she didn’t like being under the light of the moon. Most of them included night lounges that her brother tended to frequent. She had seen the inside of too many for her liking. The only lounge she truly enjoyed being in was the Midnight Lounge and that was only for one reason.

Alas, it was Sunday and any lounge open on a Sunday was bad news.

Seedy was the word brought to mind as she entered  _ Jaybee’s Saloon _ . Dim lighting, the rasped voice of a sultry female singing a cordial tune. Jaunting laughter and the overwhelming odor of cigar smoke and alcohol. This was no place at all for a lady. No place at all for Elizabeth Dandridge.

She pulled the scarf tighter over her hair and scanned the room. She found her target- for lack of better wording- at a table in the back corner. Surrounded by men down on their luck who so brought forth the memory of her brother she was almost sick with it. And had he not been pulling an extra shift at the factory that night, Elizabeth would have forced Howie to make this trip himself. He was trying to do better and as far as she cared, that was all that mattered.

She wasn’t going to shove him into the hole he was still crawling out of.

Hands shoved deep in the pockets of her pants, she strode across the lounge and planted herself firmly in a circle of masculine hell.

“Mr. Claymont.”

At her announcement, all eight men at the table and the four standing by. Claymont was slow in raising his line of sight to meet hers.

“Why, Ms. Dandridge, what a pleasant surprise.” He clasped his hands together on top of the table. “I’m sorry to inform you that your negligence of a brother is not with us this evening.”

She was already in a piss poor mood. His complaint against her brother wasn’t improving it any. Howie was  _ her _ brother and hers alone. No one else was allowed to possess her disappointment or disregard for him, as it all came from a place of womb-shared love. She was the only person allowed to judge him.

“He’s at work.” Elizabeth’s voice strained to remain pliant. The last thing she needed was to once again lose her cool against the mammoth loan shark. “I’m here for you.”

At her four words, the four men around the table all stepped out of the shadows and drew in around her. As if she posed some sort of threat.

If only.

Claymont raised a hand, signaling for them to back off. “What can I do you for, Ms. Dandridge? Do you partake in the drink and game as your brother?”

It was everything she had not to roll her eyes to the ceiling. She delved into her purse and produced the stringed wad of bills. Two-thirds of it was her own cash, the other portion Howie’s. He promised to pay her back the money when he had some to spare.

“Here.” She tossed it on the table. “Part of what Howard owes you. I’ll get you more when my next check comes through. You’ll have to do in increments, which I hope you find satisfactory.”

Claymont reached and took the cash. He unbound it and counted through. His thin mouth moved over each syllable, reaching  _ one hundred _ . He raised his eyebrows. “I won’t be satisfied until the debt is paid.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And it will be. But five thousand isn’t exactly small peanuts so learn to make do until then. Good evening.” Elizabeth spun on her heel and turned to leave the club.

He cleared his throat and she stopped,but didn’t dare turn. It wasn’t gravy to be calm and courageous in the face of a shark. “Ms. Dandridge.” She hummed in quiet response. “Tell your little singer to watch his mouth or he’ll end up with the fishes.”

Little sing-?

Harry.

Elizabeth turned so swiftly her head spun. “Excuse me,” heart thudding, blood pounding in her ears. All to the same rhythm, the same beat, the same name.

_ Harry. Harry. Harry _ .

“Excuse me?”

Claymont stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket before stuffing the money in the breast of the jacket. When seated, it was easy to forget how tall he was. A harbinger of hell and worse. Good thing she had never been afraid of men and putting them in their place.

“Your boyfriend, the singer down at the Midnight. Thought he had the guts to talk big in your name. Keep him on a short leash, sweetheart, or you’ll be in need of someone else to keep your bed warm.”

She could only blink. Surely…Had he? No, there was no way. Unless…? She thought back to the first night of their acquaintance.

_ I just saw ya cornered by Mr. Claymont and only wanted to make sure he wasn’t giving ya a hard time or something. _

Fuck. Her.

Leave it to a man to assume she needed saving.

One of the men reached out and grabbed her by the arm. Nothing like Harry’s warm plumose touch, his hand was rough, calluses digging into her bicep and fingernails pinching skin. “I’m itchin’ for a spot in your bed, sugar.” Whiskey seeped from his slurred words. He tore the scarf from her hair, bringing it to his nose and inhaling the scent with closed eyes.

Several of the others laughed at her expense. At this man’s handling of her. The appearance that she was helpless in his grasp. That she was a woman to be trifled with. All of her insides sparked into a wildfire, contrasting so sharply to the sizzling that settled when with Harry, these flames were icicles and polar bear claws.

_ You’re a vicious beast when it comes down to it. _

Elizabeth cleared her throat, “It would do you well to let me go.” She tried to wretch from his grasp, but he held her there.

Something akin to fear bubbled in her stomach, tossing fuel into the blazes. She turned her eyes from him, focusing on the table. Men grinning and goading him to have his way with her. Claymont standing, the ringmaster of this beastly circus, observing with a sick smile on his face.

“Think you and I could do some real pretty stuff together. I bet that mouth of yours-.”

Elizabeth’s hand shot out to the table and her fingers curled around the neck of a beer bottle. She festered all her might and swung. The glass slammed into the side of his head and something sprayed across her cheek. She clawed her hand into his wrist and yanked his grip away, shoving him backwards into the floor.

He landed with a sharp shriek and all eyes turned to curse her.

As if a divine being could ever be cursed.

“Touch me again and the only thing you’ll itch for is a grave plot.” She spat down at the man, words slick with serpentine venom. She turned her hellfire gaze upon Lloyd Claymont. “I will burn you to the goddamn ground if you or any of these other worthless lowlife pieces of garbage ever lays another finger on me. I am not some pretty porcelain doll, Lloyd Claymont, I promise you that.”

She took a settling breath, chest rising and falling. Tongue in cheek, she said not another word before turning on them all and beginning her trek to the door. With a second thought and a certain English singer’s face in her mind. She stopped and turned only her head. “And if you go near Harry, you’ll be the one with the fish, Mr. Claymont. Have I made myself clear?”

His only response, “Abundantly. Have a good night, Ms. Dandridge.”

She rubbed the blossoming prints on her arm and left the club.

“Harry! Harry, open the goddamn door! I know you’re in there!”

He was, in fact, in his hotel room. At well past eleven-thirty at night on one of his two sacred nights to himself in quiet solitude. Well, what had been quiet solitude until someone began to bang their fist against the door of his hotel suite and awake him from a dream of stardust and orchids and butterflies.

“Harry!”

Was that…?

“Open this God-forsaken door!”

Elizabeth.

He practically fell from his bed in the pursuit. Wearing only a pair of undergarments and white tanked shirt, he considered putting something on that was more appropriate for her presence. Then again, he couldn’t help but wonder the nature of her visit so late in the evening.

His answer awaited him when he threw open the door. Her freckled face reddened, dark eyes soulless and all-encompassing. Something dark specked her cheek, darker than the freckles. Her upper arm red and turning a violent purple.

“You must be out of your fuckin’ skull!” She shoved herself into the room and slammed the door behind her vicious entrance.

Blood. It was blood on her cheeks. A burgeoning bruise in the shape of a hand on her hand. Who the fuck-?

“Why on God’s green earth would you harass Lloyd Claymont about me? I don’t need your help!”

Harry could only swallow the lump in his throat. She was never supposed to know that. Had that fucker hurt her?

Every morsel of his being licked up in white-hot fire. God, when he got his hands on that piece of-.

“In case you were ignorantly unaware, he has enough manpower to wipe us both out and he won’t think twice about it. I was handling him fine and there was no need for you to put yourself in his poor graces like that.” Her words came fast, hot, lethal. The beast’s head finally reared from its cage. Teeth out and claws sharpened.

“I wasn’t thinking. I-.”

She cut him off, not giving him the chance to plead his case, “Do you ever think, Harry? Ever at all? Or is life so sugar-rotted with your aimless pleasure-seeking that your brain has been scooped clean out?”

He never imagined the beast turning on him. Mouth dry, he ran his fingers through sleep-ridden curls. He had worked so tirelessly to unlock the cage and free the beast that he never for a second imagined what would happen when he did.

“Elizabeth, now you’re just being mean.” He whispered.

Her face screwed up. She was a woman on fire. Emblazoned by her wrath and burning each place her feet tread. He’d never much been afraid of a woman who wasn’t his mother, but Elizabeth Dandridge wasn’t any woman. She had bundled her true feelings and personage up for quite possibly her entire life and now it all came bursting at the seams. There would be no going back for her.

“No, I’m being myself. Isn’t this what you wanted from me? Isn’t that what you said?”

It was only then, her words turbulent, that he realized she was shaking. In all her fury, it had been masked by his stilled amazement. Really and truly shaking. Her hands trembling with outrage and despair. Her shoulders shuddered with each breath. Her hair mussed at the top. Eyes wide and pupils blown so far there was no way to tell where the brown ended, and the black began.

Flecks of dark and drying blood decorated her cheek, intermingled with the stardust freckles. The handprint on her arm turning an abhorrent purple with each passing second.

Harry took a laggard step towards her. She took two steps away from him until her back was flush against the wall.

“Don’t lay a goddamn hand on me.” She hissed out.

The terror in her voice masked only by noxious words. His heart broke apart, falling into the pit of his stomach. Mind rampant with all the horrible things he could imagine and didn’t want to ring true. Someone had hurt her, scared her. It took a lot to strike fear in a woman like her.

“You have blood on your face. And a bruise. Who-Who hurt you? Who did this?” He could barely get the words out. He wanted to know.  _ Needed _ to know. But for her to speak the atrocity into existence was to forever stain his soul with the knowledge. Her soul already stained, he wanted to help her and had no clue how.

She rubbed her palm down her cheek in the effort to wipe the blood. In vain, however, the blood only smeared as streaks against porcelain, freckled skin. She wiped her hand on the dark trousers, “Some good for nothing lowlife of Claymont’s. He-he grabbed me and-.”

He tried once more, another slow step in her direction. This time, she didn’t move. Her body remained frozen against the wall. “I’m here. You’re here with me, you’re safe,  _ fleur douce _ .” He murmured, holding his hands up. “I won’t-I won’t touch you.”

God, how could he ever again with this knowledge between them? How could he ever in the fear that she would equate him to the piece of filth that violated her space? He couldn’t strike a fear like that in her. He’d never touch her again if it meant she felt herself safe from harm. Harm he would never cause her, but she wouldn’t know that. All men would forever be akin to that monster in her mind.

“The blood is his.” She leaned her head against the wall, hands gripping. “I knocked his lights out with a bottle when he pawed at me.” Her voice became clearer by the second as she chained her beast once again. Her chin tilted down to meet his gaze. “What the fuck is wrong with men?” She groaned. Her shoulders eased into stillness as she nodded her head to the side. “You all think I’m some object to be groped and palmed over. Jesus and the Virgin Mother, I should have killed him.”

The color of her language wasn’t lost upon him, even in the situation at hand. He had never heard her speak so freely without self-objection, let alone curse or entertain the notion of murder.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly, “you should have.” If he ever found the shit’s identity and saw him, Harry would do it himself. No fucker like that deserved to breathe another day.

In a trepid voice, she asked why he confronted Claymont over her. What reasoning did he have to make words against a man like that, in her honor and defense?

Harry shrugged, “May have figured out about your debt to him. I told him to let it go, leave you alone or I’d make him sorry.”

Her brow furrowed towards her eyes. She pushed off the wall but remained away from him. “You did that? For me?”

“’Course.” He graveled out. Who else for? He only ever wanted her safety. Her happiness.

_ Her. _

Elizabeth sighed. She raked her hands, ever steadying, through the crown of her hair. She closed her eyes, nostrils flaring out with heavy breath. When they opened, he saw the flecks of hazel and caramel returning. She was mellowing. “It isn’t my debt, Harry. It’s Howie’s. He owes Claymont a lot of money. I’ve been paying it.”

“I can help you. Let me help you.”

Her smile was terse but forgiving. He only ever wanted her forgiveness. “I don’t want your help. I just…”

He took another step. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch at his impending closeness. He continued until their chests touched and he could hear even the quiet pants of her breathing. Close enough to see the thin film of tears swelled on her waterlines. God, what it took to make a goddess cry.

“What can I do?”

“Hold me.”

Restraint was needed not to throw his arms around her. She needed comfort and eager as he was to provide, he didn’t want to scare her off. He wound his arms around her, one around her waist and the other her shoulders. He palmed the back of her head to cradle it, fingers finding refuge in silken copper hair. She inhaled sharply against him before melting into the embrace. He sighed as her arms connected around him, her own fingers digging into his back for mooring.

Her nose nestled in the hollow of his clavicle. Rose shampoo burning his nostrils. If he had known this was what it took to bear her vulnerability, he never would have asked for it.


	9. nine: shoulders and their burdens: Atlas, can you hear me?

As a musician, Harry surrounded himself with noises and sounds that spun his stomach into cyclones and sent his heart into a gallop. They were all beautiful in their own mysterious ways. Daunting melodies from a piano, side-sweeping riffs on the guitar, a staccato rhythm from a trumpet could easily put a smile on his face. And yet, none of them affected him quite the way her laugh did.

It was a strange combination of all his treasured notes. Coalesced and stitched together to create a tune so vividly canorous not even Tchaikovsky could have written it. No other sound could ever rival it in his opinion. He only needed to hear it once for the waves to be forever etched into his heart’s memory and to place the midnight sound above all else.

Especially when he was the cause for it.

“No! You must be joking!”

The force of her nature had her doubled over on the brown leather couch, arms clutched around her sides. She looked so beautiful in this state, face alive with cheer and her hair loose around her face.

“I assure you, I’m not!” He grinned at her. “They all thought no harm in visiting that sort of place, especially on New Year’s Eve. Naturally, as soon as I arrived to drag them back to camp, our Major-General arrived and had all our arses. It was a nightmare.”

“Did you at least tell him that you weren’t there to partake in the…festivities?”

He shook his head. He remembered the night clear as it had happened yesterday. Arriving at the courtesan house in a mad hurry to try and pull his fellow soldiers out before the Major-General arrived and found them out. Endeavor too late, the Major-General arrived just in time to see a courtesan proposition Harry rather heavily. Their commander had been so right pissed he couldn’t even speak properly. They had all been in the trenches for a week after that as punishment.

“He wouldn’t hear it.” Harry told her. “Called us all a pack of debauched degenerates and a whole list of other things that no one should ever say in front of their mums.”

In the way he was growing to love, her brows slanted down to signal her confusion at his statement. Her eyes squinted, “What insults are so terrible they cannot be said in front of flowers?”

Flowers…?

Mums. Dear baby Jesus, she was something else. Hardly ever did their vernacular barrier get in the way of their conversations. For the most part, they understood one another and very rarely did a time occur that they referred to an item in a completely different manner.

“No, no.” Harry waved his hands at her. He took her hand in his, urged by the basic desire to hold her in any way she would allow. “Mum, like my mother. That’s the term we use in England.”

“Heavens, am I a cold fish or what?” She shook her head, using her free hand to hide her face. “You must think me so embarrassing sometimes, I’m sure.”

Who could ever be embarrassed by a goddess?

Harry said that was not the case, never had it or would it be so. No one could ever dare be ashamed of her, only immensely proud, blessed to even be of her acquaintance. He stretched his grasp and clasped on to her wrist. With the utmost gentility, he lowered her hand. She shifted, ever so slightly, to meet his gaze.

Her eyes searched over his face as she murmured, “The courtesans, did they tempt your primal inhibitions?”

That, he could admit, was something he never much thought of in consideration of that night. There’d been only one thing on his mind and that was saving his fellow soldiers. He’d never given a second look or thought to the women of the establishment, only to express his regard of not sharing a bed with one of them.

To be true, he had never much been tempted in that physical way. He had shared plenty of stolen kisses in dark alleys, but nothing beyond. He wasn’t necessarily waiting, only stubborn in his belief that the act be born with someone with whom he shared an intimate bond.

“No,” he replied, voice coarse, “they did not.”

“Are you lying? I know some men think that such things aren’t to be discussed in front of women but-.”

“I’d never lie to you, Elizabeth. Only the truth exists between us.”

The truth and a quickening of his heart he could not quit. A feeling most unshakable, one he did not want to lose.

Someone’s throat cleared.

Elizabeth jerked herself back, eyes widening. Her entire body withdrew, hands and all. Her posture went rigid as she clasped her hands in her lap. Harry blinked, wondering how her brother’s interruption could cause such a stir. His unspoken question went answered when he turned towards the disturbance and saw a man who was not at all Howard Dandridge.

A small slip of a man. Slicked back blond hair and circular eye-glasses, he looked more like a university student than anything. 

“Am I interrupting something?” His reflected eyes shifted from Elizabeth to Harry.

He had never heard anyone say  _ no  _ as quick as she did. But…something had been going on. Hadn’t it? Harry knew better than to entertain the notion he was dreaming it all up in his head. She may not have been privy to the knowledge, but Elizabeth harbored a sentiment to him uncannily similar to the one he held towards her.

“Paul,” Elizabeth jumped up from the couch, “this is Harry. He’s the singer at the Midnight Lounge.” Paul, whoever he was, looked less than impressed at the information. If anything, he looked wary of the entire situation. “Paul is my assistant.” She said quickly in a hushed voice, only for him. “You see, Paul,” she began to stride over to him in that effortless fashion no one else could ever manage, “I enlisted Harry for some help not too long ago.”

“And what sort of help would that be?” Paul raised an eyebrow. “Are you learning an instrument now as well?”

He felt as though he was on the outside of a joke he didn’t understand in the least. Elizabeth tittered and shook her head. Harry was ever curious to hear her confess to their agreement in helping her understand and master the art of seduction. An art which he still held a steadfast opinion that she had never needed help with in the first place.

“I thought it would be a wonderful idea to have some fresh music for the film and Harry seemed the perfect person to score it. He does have a divine voice and it really could add something sweet to the picture.”

The way she lied so easily unsettled his stomach. The words came so freely and lightly, the same as any truth she ever offered. Or was everything a lie? Was there any honest part of her at all? Had he been feeding himself to a beast all along? She made perfect sense and none at all.

“An idea to be run by your producer, I’m sure.” Paul told her. “But a very nice idea, nonetheless. You are always on your toes, Elizabeth. I did need to speak with you about something important. Could we take a private moment?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Elizabeth nodded swiftly. She motioned for a moment and he left them, not without sparing Harry one last questioning glance. “I’ll only be a few moments, I promise.” She turned to follow in the direction Paul went off.

“Elizabeth,” she spun a turn at her name, “why did you lie?” They were, per her boundary, only friends. “About me.”

Her peaceful expression faltered. “Just a few minutes, Harry. Please.” And she was gone from the room.

His entire body was cold. The lie soaking and seeping through him like ice. Who was she? If she could lie so quickly and easily like that, what else had she lied about?

Perhaps he didn’t know her half so well as he thought. People were often deceiving and the same had to be said for those who made their livings by playing roles and characters. Her job was to always play that of another person. It was her passion, her life force. There was a possibility it bled into her personal life. Who was to say she did not play a role with him, as she did on screen? And if that were the case, who was the real Elizabeth Dandridge?

Harry, thoughts spiraling, head spinning, found himself unable and unwilling to wait for her. He was in no mind or mood to hear an explanation from her at the time current. So, he did the only thing he knew he could do.

He left.

Elizabeth knocked once on the door before pushing it open. “Mr. Mayer, you wanted to see me?”

Louis Mayer was by no stretch of the word an intimidating man in looks or nature. At times, he seemed almost genial and kind-hearted. Elizabeth only found herself timid in his presence due to the fact he held her contract and her future in his hands.

“Shut the door and have a seat, Elizabeth.”

Nothing about that tone sounded good at all.

She pressed the door shut, tongue too big for her mouth all of a sudden and the feeling of cotton wedged in her throat. Was he about to fire her? Elizabeth sat down, curling her hands around the arms of the chair.

What would she do? Where would she go? God, not back to Port Aransas. And what about her house? She couldn’t keep it on any less a salary and it was such a place for her. It felt more like home than that small farmhouse ever had. Her garden was finally looking like something and some of the rooms were completed. No, she wouldn’t be able to maintain it on anything less. She would have to sell it. And live where?

She would never be able to show her face again in Hollywood. Embarrassment and shame, two emotions she  _ never  _ lent a home to would eat away inside of her. Elizabeth Dandridge, star of  _ Flight Star _ and  _ Elegance of First Contact _ , MGM darling, the next Big Thing. Only be, never be anything more. What a shame it would be, to claw her way to the top of that mountain only to be hurtled down by the gatekeeper at the peak.

_ If he fires you, at least you’ll have Harry _ .

At least she would have Harry.

No, that wasn’t how she wanted him. She didn’t want to lose everything at the cost of him. The price was too much to spare. Wasn’t that the whole reason she had remained adamant about their friendship? The expense of her heart at the price of her dream.

She would never show her face to him again. How could she, when he held so much faith in her and her flight into and above the stars? She wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Paul and I had a very long conversation this morning and I thought the matter urgent enough that you should come here and speak with me.”

No, this was not good.

He had sent Paul to her house and he had seen a moment of ephemeral intimacy between she and Harry. Though the lie she spun came out soft and quick as silk, that didn’t make it hurt any less.

_ Only the truth exists between us _ .

If only that were the case.

The lie had to have struck some deep chord in Harry, for he had disappeared when she went back to tell him she had to leave immediately.

And now there she sat. Her seat burning and skin on fire.

“I’ve been…alerted of your close relationship with the singer at the Midnight Lounge.”

If people were natural disasters, Harry was a monsoon, and she was drowning.

“Oh.” She whispered. “ _ Oh _ .”

“Elizabeth, you assured me that I need never have any qualms about your personal life becoming an issue for your career.”

The room spun. All of it out of reach and blurred and too warm for her comfort. She gripped the chair arms for dear life and squeezed her eyes shut. It took several shaking breaths for her to regain her composure and reopen her eyes. Mr. Mayer was studying her, her movements, her behavior. Her unease.

_ Remember who you are, Elizabeth. Remember your place. _

She let her lips spread in a soft, genial smile. “I assured you, Mr. Mayer, that for the duration of my time with the studio, however long it should be, my personal life would never be a problem.” She relaxed her shoulders. There was nothing to hide. “I assure you still, there is no need to be alarmed of my friendship with Mr. Styles. We are but the sincerest of friends.”

If he believed her, he didn’t look it.

Her life’s work was pretending. Playing parts and characters and slipping into roles like new dresses. She was supremely good at lying and acting. But even she didn’t believe herself when she said it.

“I’ll remind you of your morality clause. You are to appear available and desirable to the public. Your only relationship of copulation to be with the public eye. You are never to engage in sexual or romantic relationship of any kind while under contract at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. You are to never marry while under contract. You are never to fall indisposed or produce a child of illegitimate or otherwise while under contract.”

She knew the words. She knew all the words of her contract, frontwards, backwards, side to side, left to right, and right to left. She knew each clause and declaration, each punctuation mark, and emboldened or italicized remark.

She knew. She understood. She saw. She hated every bit of it.

“I’m aware, Mr. Mayer. And as I said, Mr. Styles and I are only friends. I find it nice to spend time with someone normal once in a while. It keeps me humble.” She only added the next part, for feeling particularly vicious, “The public does love a modest and sensible young woman, if I’m not mistaken?”

He cleared his throat, nodded tersely to her words. “Very well, then. That was all.”

Elizabeth got to her feet and smoothened her blouse and skirt. She daggered her teeth as far into the inside of her cheek as they would go. Rusted iron liquid sprouted and still she was not satisfied.

“Elizabeth,” he called when she opened the door, “you are a very bright and talented young lady. I imagine you will go very far with us here. I would so hate to see your future snuffed out by the flickering light of false love and hollow promises.”

She didn’t bother turning around to say, “Thank you, Mr. Mayer. Have a nice day.”

_ Bright and talented. _

_ Vicious. _

They had no fucking idea.

Her claws were in him so fucking deep. If people could be illnesses, she was terminal. Jettisoning her way through his brain, consuming all his thoughts. Barreling through his heart to make sure each beat was to the rhythm of her name. If people were natural disasters, she was the eruption of Mount Vesuvius; Harry the helpless Pompeii who could only wait for his imminent destruction.

It had been a bold lie to tell himself he could ever be satisfied with only friendship from her. He knew her too well, saw through her Oz trick and knew the real figure behind the curtain. At least, he thought he did. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

She had been so insistent on their remaining friends. She pulled back each of her own attempts and shoved his back with violent force. To put such work into maintaining their flimsy covering, she had been quick to coat it with a cruel lie. 

_ Only the truth exists between us. _

And yet, he felt there were so many things she kept him from. He had left all his doors wide open for her and hers remained shut and locked. If people were books, Harry was on display; Elizabeth tucked away in a section no one was allowed entry. A rare, collector’s edition that no one would ever set eyes on.

“Gimme another.” Harry smacked his flat palm against the bar.

Wally glanced up from his task of cleaning glasses. He didn’t ask a single question before refilling Harry’s Scotch. Straight, no ice.

He rarely had more than a drink before his shift. He knew how dangerous it was to drink while upset. But it was the only thing clearing a path through his mental fog. Why did she have to be so damn complicated all the time? And, Jesus, why couldn’t she ever give way to what she wanted?

Life was all about doing the things that made you feel good and fighting for those things. He understood her passion for her career, he did. He loved how much she cared and how hard she tried because it was something she wanted so bad. But it wasn’t the only thing in the world. Hollywood shed stars the ways snakes shed their skins. He hoped she lasted forever but in the case she didn’t, where did her life go then? Was he a part of her plan?

Or just a road stop? A brief, fleeting pitstop, a small pond to dip her toes in, before going on her way.

The ripples would carry over his surface forever.

_ Friends. _

What a fuckin’ joke.

“Lemme guess.” Wally saddled up in front of him. He poured himself a drink and glanced around. “This have something to do with a certain red-headed actress?” It seemed the only answer he needed was a sorry look on Harry’s end. “Knew it. I shoulda warned ya.”

Harry was at a loss as to why he’d need a warning in the case of Elizabeth Dandridge. Well, he should have had one. But why would Wally need to play the part of messenger? He’d never given thought to the idea she was more well known that he believed. Perhaps that night hadn’t been her first time in the Midnight Lounge.

If people were bodies of water, she was the ocean. Endless, deep beyond belief. Dark. Undiscoverable.

“Warn me about what?” Harry grumbled, interest piqued. Had he not been the first to fall for her Venus trap? How many came before him? Was he just the next poor soul in a long line of bees attracted to her flower pollen?

Wally leaned against his edge of the bar counter. “It’s never a good idea of an outsider to get involved with one of them.”  _ One of who _ , Harry inquired. A woman? A Dandridge? A Dandridge woman? “The Glitterati, that’s what we all call ‘em, anyways. The elite. The stars of the valley.” The actors and actresses. Silver-screen gods among mortals.

“Why’s that?”

Wally blinked. Discomforting curiosity bloomed over his features before settling into disbelief. “Oh, man, you don’t know?”

If Harry was being honest, there were a lot of things he didn’t know. How to breathe life into an orchid. How to correctly plant and nourish a flower of any kind, really. The inner workings of Elizabeth Dandridge’s mind. The steeps and valleys of her heart.

“Mate, I don’t know a fat lot right now.” Harry admitted. “Quit bein’ a cryptic and spill the guts.”

Afraid of someone overhearing whatever was about to tumble from his mouth, Wally gave the room a heavy once over. He leaned down real close and beckoned Harry forward. And it was when Harry leaned closer that the almighty truth ignited in his brain.

When Wally finished supplying the cold truth, Harry could only fall back on the stool in dumbfounded silence. The world pulled together. The stars in their predestined alignments came together in Andromeda, Vulpecula, Lupus. The truth, raw and frightening and bedeviled and enriching and shrill as fuck. Everything made sense. Sudden, perfect, real sense. Every action, every touch, every feeling, every withdrawal. Every step forward and every four steps back.

He knew. He understood. He saw. He hated every bit of it.

“Stop thinking of him.”

She no longer recognized the woman who stared back at her in the mirror. The woman was a stranger wearing her face, with the same dark almond eyes and spattering of freckles.  _ You’ve, uh, got a lot of those stardust things.  _ The problem Elizabeth faced was that she had no idea which woman was truly her. The woman who placed her dream above all else and would stop at nothing to achieve it. Or the woman who found herself so hopeless in the face of evergreen eyes.

“Stop, stop, stop.” She hissed.

Men were dangerous. Ruinous. Had that not been the entire reason her parents had sent her to an all-girls school? The blinding, delirious effort to keep her pure of heart, body, mind, and soul. Hadn’t they known she had never been such?

Harry Styles more dangerous than any other because he possessed the ability to turn her head. To make her feel things she had sworn never to feel. He stirred awake long-forgotten pieces of her existence and fought to place them among the scattered puzzle image. His quest of knowing her knew no rest and while she sometimes found it tireless, she did not wish it to cease. Perhaps if he were more like her, she would have acted similarly towards him. But he was transparent and laid everything out for her to see, clear as day.

There was something refreshing in that when she spent so much time navigating around people like her.

She didn’t know what alerted her to his arrival first. The sound of squealing tires on the drive or the pull in her stomach she got whenever he was near. No matter which came first, the burn of rubber against pavement was undeniable.

She jumped from the vanity and ran to the balcony. Just in time to see him slam the car into park and hurdle himself out. His gaze flicked up, their eyes meeting. She had never thought much about what he would look like when angry, beautiful never came to mind. But there it was. Just as the rest of him. Clear as day.

She scurried from her room, throwing her dressing gown on as she took the stairs two at a time. All in vain since he had let himself in and stood at the base of the right staircase. Hair tousled and twisted by the wind. Face red and eyes hazy.

“We,” he gestured messily between their bodies once she reached the bottom stair, “need to talk.”

Fearing an interruption of any sort, she grabbed his wrist and hauled him behind her back up the stairs.

“Where are we-?”

Down the hall, around the corner, and straight into her open bedroom. She pulled him inside and shut the door. Holding up a patient finger, she went and shut the balcony doors, pulling down the shades.

“You left before I could give you the explanation you deserved.” She told him. “I didn’t want Paul to think anything indecent was transpiring between us-.”

“Because you’re worried ‘bout your reputation or ‘cause you’ll get fired if you break your morality clause?”

He knew. He knew? How the fuck did he know?

She opened her mouth, hoping some quick reply would make its way from her brain and out her mouth. But nothing ever came. She stood and stared like a gaping fish. She snapped her jaw shut. “Who told you?”

His hands clenched and unclenched from fisted positions at his sides. Had Lucifer looked like this when refusing to serve? No, even as the most beautiful of angels, the Devil had nothing on Harry. Or Harry  _ was _ the Devil. That seemed very plausible.

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. It wasn’t you.” He snapped at her. He spun to the side and took five steps forward. Turned and did the same pattern to the left. He continued on as he paced her floor, “Why didn’t you tell me? You think I’d flip my wig? Pick up and take off or something? I would’ve backed off, hell, Elizabeth, I thought we were getting’ somewhere and now I know this train’s never gonna leave the goddamn station.”

She had no good reason for withholding the truth. Insisting friendship had seemingly done the trick and he never pleaded his case too overbearingly. He made his feelings known but never in a way that made her uncomfortable. She had hoped they would fade with time, along with her own. Now, that seemed a fruitless hope. He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were her emotions.

“I,” she started, soon realizing she had no rebuttal to throw at him, nothing to shield herself with, “I don’t know.” She heaved a sigh. The truth was so exhausting. “I suppose…I suppose I didn’t want you to go anywhere. I was being selfish.”

“No shit.” He stopped his pacing to stand in front of her. He peered into her face. “Why do you squint so much?”

“My eyesight is one of the few imperfections I don’t have the means to fix. My glasses are not suitable for my position.”

He raked shaking hands through his hair before backing up. “God, your entire life is a lie, isn’t it?” He groaned, “Are you as upset about this fuckin’ clause as I am? Or am I goin’ batshit bonkers over here?”

There were two paths. As there were always two paths for her. The path of least resistance, where she could spill mistruths to make everything easier for everyone.  _ My name is Elizabeth Dandridge, and I am perfect. I am sweet and nice and simple and I have no skeletons in my closet.  _ Or, the thicketed, bramble path she had to hack her way through.  _ My name is Elizabeth Dandridge and I want to be perfect. I am precarious and wicked and complicated and I have starved the devil inside of me to the point of insanity. _

She chose the third path.  _ My name is Elizabeth Dandridge and I do not know who I am. _

“What do you want from me, Harry? Don’t ask for something I cannot give.”

If people were bodies of water, Harry was a torrent river.

His hands fell to his sides. “ _ Vous arrachez mon putain de cœur ici. Montrez-moi de la pitié, s’il vous plaît.” _

Per usual, she had no idea what words spilled from his mouth in French disarray. She liked it. She hated it. There was no ignoring the unabashed urgency or the stifling lachrymose in which he spoke. Begging. Pleading. For what, she had no idea.

She hoped not for her.

“You know I don’t understand French.” She reminded softly. “Even so, now that you know about the morality clause, you understand my need for strict friendship. That is all we can be.” For four years, at least. But she would never ask him to wait.

He would say yes.

“Goddamn hell, Elizabeth. What’s the fuckin’ point of livin’ if you can’t even be happy with someone?” His flippancy, unexpected and uncommon, took her by surprise. He had never before been so asinine in regard to her.

She swallowed a biting response and opted for something more affable, “I’m happy with myself. Perfectly. I was content with everything until you came along.”

And, in hindsight, not very smart on her part.

His eyes, beginning to clear, widened. The brevity of her words settling upon them both as she realized what exactly she had said and he letting the words absorb into his skin. “So,” his tongue clicked, “I’ve just ruined it all for you, then?”

No. Yes. Maybe?

She closed her eyes, pressing her finger pads to her temples. “No, of course not. I just…I…” Speaking to him was so difficult when they were both upset. As if any word would be the spark to light the fuse and detonate the bomb.

“You just what, Beth? Refuse yourself any kind of real happiness and taste of life?”

Now, that was it.

Society’s idea that she needed a man to make her happy and to give her a sense of purpose. She had done all that on her own a long time ago. She had never needed anyone else to create happiness for her. She was perfectly fine on her own. Acting made her happy. Gardening made her happy.

Harry made her happy.

Not at the moment, though. Not at all then.

“It truly isn’t as difficult as you’re making it out to be.” She placed her hands at her throat and lifted her elbows in the air.

Harry scoffed, “Oh, no, not to you.” A bewitching, cold-natured smirk pulled at his mouth. Who knew he had a beast to match hers? “You’ve buried your heart long enough that you killed it. You can’t even admit how fuckin’ good we are together ‘cause you’re shuttin’ it all down before it can live.”

She had no slick, smart reply for him. She had nothing to give as a counter. No words to assure him that her heart was very much alive and clawing its way to him. Elizabeth stood, shocked to her core.

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and walked right past her. She turned, unable to bear the look on his face. The accusing gleam of his eyes. The door swung up. “I love how hard you chase your dream, I really do. But it isn’t the only important thing in life. I hope you realize that soon and I hope I’m around for it.” And then, “ _ Je serai là. Je t’attendrais pour toujours. Tout ce que vous aviez à faire était de demander. _ ”

She didn’t move. Not when his steps clapped thunder on the stairs. Not when the slam of the door resonated through the house. Not at the sound of Cadillac tires screeching away.

How had Atlas managed to hold the sky for so long when she could hardly bear the weight of her heart?


	10. ten: god help the man

Emotions, much like the sea, had the ability to overtake someone to the point of death. They could be as gentle as a slight wave breaking near the shore, or they could be as violent as a hurricane set to destroy the cities nearby. There were people who could shoulder the burden with ease and grace. Others…Well, others strained to balance the weight of their hearts and were so the ones swept in the currents.

Many emotions were interconnected with each other. Anger was not always truly anger. It came from places of hurt, turmoil, betrayal, sadness, jealousy. Sadness truly never only alone. An imprint of lost happiness, the mourning of something gone or to never be, wrath that didn’t quite meet its boiling point. And when they came to a head, the current so strong no swimmer dared to try against it.

None except Elizabeth Dandridge.

From childhood, Elizabeth prided herself on being in complete and utter control of her emotions. She rarely lost her temper. Melancholia never dared to lay a bone-cold finger on her. The sisters of guilt, shame, and regret strayed far from her conscious and heart. Women were often seen as too emotional and driven by the worries of their hearts and she refused to be seen as such. If she was to succeed, she needed to be level-headed and appear that way at all times.

Elizabeth, now, however, was not so successful with that endeavor. For the hours after his enraged departure, Harry’s words had churned through her and pulsed in her mind, a never-ending mantra she could not rid herself of.

_God, your entire life is a lie, isn’t it?_

_So, I’ve just ruined it all for you, then?_

_You refuse yourself any kind of real happiness and taste for life._

_You’ve buried your heart long enough that you killed it._

Rampant pacing. The darkness of those once emerald eyes. Face flushed in anguish and wrath. She had never seen a heart in the midst of breaking, only ever acted it on screen. Was his the face of that hellish fate? Harry in pain, Harry hurting.

His heartbreak. Her heartbreak.

She wished they had never met. She wished their eyes had never locked that night and he had never charmed her into a lunch outing. She wished he didn’t take her for a picnic on the beach or play guitar for her or know the intrinsic details of her matters so well.

She wished she had no morality clause.

She wished he had kissed her. Or, perhaps, she had kissed him.

“God fucking damn it!”

The silver-backed hairbrush clattered against the vanity mirror. Upon impact, the glass shattered out and she turned her face.

Was this heartbreak? No script had ever warned her of it. Only prepared her for forlorn gazes and trembling lips, impeccably shed tears. The screenwriters never told her that it would swallow her whole. Miserable sorrow clawing away at her from the inside, fighting its way out in the form of dry heaves and burning eyes. She suffocated on it. Even those dreadful sisters had their way with her. Ashamed of hiding the truth. Guilty of lying to a person who didn’t deserve it. Regretful of not sharing her own feelings.

She mourned his absence and wished for his arrival. Three sharp knocks on the bumblebee. An orchid for apology in hand. That glowing smile to ease a sea of troubles. So badly did she want to see him, but she refused to be the first to make the move. Even though she had lied, he was the one who said such nasty things.

If she were to apologize, would he forgive her? Where would they even go from there? There could be no friendship, not as it had been. Any hope of anything further lay four years away and she would never ask such a thing of him.

How had everything become so convoluted?

Elizabeth gripped the edge of the vanity. She leaned forward, her knuckles whitening, peering into the broken glass. In the shards that remained, she finally saw what Harry did. A beast. A monster. That horrible devil she had spent so long hiding. And, for what? To be prim and proper and practically perfect in every way.

A woman emotional was a woman unhinged. Whoever decided that was a bad thing?

She did look the picture of it. Dark mascara smeared down her cheeks from tears, hair tangled from several attempted plaits. It was well into the early hours of the morning and she still wore her dressing gown. The house seemed too empty to venture out into; she resigned to remain in her bedroom until otherwise necessary.

Hours ago, right after Harry stormed from her room, she considered going after him. All the things she would say. All that he would reply in French. It would be resolved and that would be that. But by the time she garnered the courage, he had already driven away.

“You’ve ruined everything.” She hissed at herself. “You fucking imbecile.”

As someone who rarely made mistakes, the weight of it was indeed too heavy to bear. And she encountered remarkable trouble in deducing which mistake had exactly led to this state of undoing. Allowing the friendship or lying to him about the true nature of it?

Quite possibly, he could never forgive her for this. The realization so daunting, it emitted a strangled cry from her throat.

“Bet?”

She looked away from the mirror. Howie stood in the frame of her bathroom door. She wiped the backs of her hands against her cheeks quickly.

“Did I wake you?” She asked, standing up. “I’m just rehearsing.”

He glanced at the broken mirror and then back to her. His eyes narrowed. “D’ya wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“There’s absolutely nothing to talk about. I told you, I’m rehearsing a scene.”

He dropped his head to look her in the eye as he drew closer. “Y’know, I’ve been here all day. S’my day off.”

All day. He’d been at home all day. Which meant…He heard everything. He knew everything. He had been home when Paul came to fetch her. When she returned from her meeting, screaming about how her morality clause was a means of a leash. Her fight with Harry.

Howie knew _everything_.

“I don’t-I’m sure I don’t-.” She stammered over the words. Denying the truth was hard when the person right in front of you knew everything.

“M’the one person you don’t gotta lie to, Elizabeth. S’been you and me our whole lives. No hidin’, no nothin’. Jus’ us.”

_Just us._

From the womb to the world and wherever after. Alike in few ways and dissimilar in so many more. The Dandridge twins. Life did throw hurtles after them and perhaps they weren’t meant to survive it. Scarlet fever had nearly done them in at eight years old. So vividly did she remember sharing a bed with her brother for those weeks because their combined body warmth helped stave off the chills. The recession and those years skimming on food and sharing with their less fortunate neighbors. Howie, who had hated the garden, asking to help her so they could ‘grow the maters twice as fast’. The War, surely to take his life as it had taken so many others.

And this. Her heart shattering into millions of fragments inside her very chest and those beautiful doves dying in their gilded cage because she had been a fool enough to entangle herself with a man whose beauty rival only Lucifer’s and a laugh that made her forget why she had ever sworn off love in the first place.

“Bet.”

She did the only thing she felt truly right. She threw her arms around him, hugging him close. “Howie, I messed up,” the sob punctured her lungs, “I’ve ruined it all.”

He didn’t speak. He made the soft shushing noises their mother had made when she sang them to sleep from across the room during their shared sickness. The shushing noises she had given when Howie asked if they were going to die. His affections were of the tender nature, soothing circles rubbed over her spine, fingers combing her hair.

“I don’t want to feel this.” She choked out, squeezing him harder. Maybe if she held on long enough, hard enough, she could squeeze the pain from herself. Because surely, surely, if it were able to be cried away, it would have already been done and over with. “Make it stop. Please, make it go away.”

When he pulled away from her, she could admit she wasn’t ready. He pushed the hair back from her face and wiped her eyes.

“It hurts so bad, Howie. I feel…I feel as if I’ve been shot in the heart and I’m bleeding out.”

He nodded with her words. “I’ll fix it, Bet. I promise, I will.”

Had she been in higher spirits, she would have objected. Howie was many things, dishonorable, he was not. A drunkard, yes. But dishonorable? A liar? No. Perhaps she wore that crown.

“How?” Her voice was rasped and dry as he tucked tendrils of hair behind her ears.

“’Member what Mama used to say? Mistakes are easily made in the moment. Apologies are not.”

That dreadful phrase. Uttered every time they fought and used to force them to apologize and make up.

“I’ll figure it out.” Howie promised. He gestured to her open bedroom door, “Jus’ try to get some sleep.” He waited for her to crawl into the bed before turning off the bathroom light. He promised to go tomorrow and buy her a new vanity to replace the now broken one. And before he left, “I’ll fix this for ya, I owe ya one.”

Unlike many other people he knew, Harry had never been very good at keeping his emotions in check. Feeling everything that life had to offer and feeling it to the fullest extent was the way he was made, and he had never regretted it before now.

Not even during the War, when life had been so raw with bombs and gunfire, blood and the putrid scent of death and fear. Many of his fellow soldiers had been brave or put on brave faces in the face of the enemy and the possibility of never returning home. Harry, on the other hand, saw no reason in embracing his fear and using it to press himself forward. The fear of never seeing his family again, of never strumming his guitar, or really falling in love. They all had been his driving force in persevering.

Harry had never been one for regretting anything. Life wasn’t meant to be spent dwelling on a past full of things that couldn’t be changed. Life was supposed to be fulfilling and spent chasing wants and dreams and hopes and wishes. There was no use regretting anything, there was a lesson in everything.

He wasn’t aware of the lesson in his argument with Elizabeth. And he regretted every bit of it.

He shouldn’t have shouted at her or said any of those words at all. In all honesty, he regretted confronting her in the first place.

The conversation was necessary, but it would have been better to wait. He had been furious and hurt, betrayed by her deception. His fury had sparked hers and it all went to Hell after that.

And now they were…Well, they weren’t anything.

It had been hours and though he knew better than to expect a heartfelt, gushing apology from her, it didn’t stop him from wishing she would show up at his hotel.

Perhaps if he…?

No, he would not apologize first. She was the one who lied to him, who led him on, deceived him. He did need to apologize for his words and behaviors, but he refused to make the first move. The entire length of their acquaintance, he had been the one to make the first move.

It was her turn.

_And if she doesn’t?_

Though contrite at times, the voice in the back of his mind had a habit of leading his thoughts down the right path. If Elizabeth refused to make the first move in this, he didn’t know what he would do. Quit her? Did he even have the strength to make a choice of that magnitude? His heart was already breaking; the idea of never seeing or speaking to her again was enough to create an explosion so drastic, it would never recover.

“God fuckin’ damn it.”

She’d been tearing him apart from the moment they met. He knew, he denied it, and now it was clear to see. He was being devoured by the beast, just the way he had pictured. Sickeningly, the way he had hoped.

She was going to be the death of him. One way or another. Whether he died from wounds she inflicted or if he perished waiting on her in the cold.

It wasn’t as if he was asking her to give her dream up in his name or to risk it all with an impassioned and secret tryst. He only wanted honesty. The truth and perhaps the promise of something more down the line. Her heart. Would she ever give that away? Or would he spend the rest of his days holding his hands out and pleading for an offering in vain?

He had been a fool. He never should have trusted a woman so striking, someone so great at hiding her true self. She had been showing her true colors since they met and he had ignored every warning sign, hurtling further into a waking volcano. She had made a fool of him. Worse, he had let her. 

_If she came to you, would you forgive her?_

The sad thing was, he absolutely would.

Elizabeth could not, for the life of her, figure out why the phone was ringing in the middle of the night. She knew no one with a good enough reason to call her so late. Nor did she know of any reason to be receiving a phone call at-.

Howie.

Vaguely, as if it was a dream and not a real memory, she recalled him leaving with the promise to return soon. And that had been at five. There has yet to be the sound of the door slamming shut or trudging steps on the stairs to wake her. 

Without any of the grace she typically mustered, she scrambled from the bed. All warning bells in her head were ringing. Howie always came home. With his debt lingering over them and her threat to Lloyd Claymont, Elizabeth actually feared for her brother’s life. The caller could have been the hospital or the police. God, even Claymont himself calling to brag.

She nearly tumbled down the stairs twice before reaching the telephone. By some stroke of luck, she answered on the last ring.

“Hello?” She sucked in a breath to compose herself. “This is Elizabeth.”

“Um, hi. It’s me.”

Elizabeth very nearly dropped the phone.

Harry. It was him. He called. He was making the first move.

“Harry,” his name took every piece of breath in her lungs, “hi. You’re calling late, it’s,” she glanced over at the clock, “after eleven. What-?”

“You need to come get your brother. We’re closing soon and he can’t drive in his state.”

_Howie._

She was going to wring his neck. He had been doing so well. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there. Harry, maybe we could-.” The click of the dial tone and the subsequent buzz were all she needed to know he had hung up on her. “Or not.”

It was safe to say she was still in the metaphorical dog house. And as for her brother…he should consider himself lucky she was in no mood to argue with him.

For it to be so close to midnight, Elizabeth had fretted over her appearance at least fifteen minutes before leaving the house. Her hair a mess and no time for any sort of makeup, she opted for a black hair-scarf and having to wear her eye-glasses. And knowing Howie had driven himself to the lounge, she had to call a cab. The absolute last thing she needed was someone recognizing his car there the next morning and making some story of it.

She paid the cabbie and checked her appearance in the rearview mirror one last time before exiting the car.

She hadn’t seen Harry in days. Her stomach was in knots and her head fuzzy. She couldn’t fix the day when he had garnered such control over her, but she remained ever obstinate of it. With a deep breath, she dove headfirst into the Midnight Lounge.

The club was emptier than she had ever seen. Hardly a patron to be seen, the only people visible the man behind the bar, her brother, and Harry next to him. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, same as ever. Familiar head of dark curls, jet black art inked into the visible skin of his forearms. The flashy performance suit traded for a simple white button-down shirt and brown slacks.

“Howie.” She approached the bar, adjusting her purse over her shoulder.

In the middle of a sentence to Harry, his entire body froze. A tumbler of amber liquid in his grasp and posture so relaxed, she wouldn’t have needed to see the drink to know he was intoxicated. “Uh-oh. Fun’s over, Styles.”

She didn’t miss the way Harry’s body began to turn before he locked it into position. Elizabeth had never before been given the cold shoulder and she was not much a fan of it. Surely, he didn’t expect her to apologize first?

Oh, God, did he?

“Grab your things.” She told her brother. “It’s late and I’m in no mood.”

Howie finally looked at her. Even though she wore her glasses, she squinted at his features. Was he…? No, he couldn’t be…could he? “Yer cross.” He smacked the back of his hand against Harry’s shoulder. “She’s cross with me, pal. Any tips?”

Harry remained silent.

His pertinacity over the whole ordeal was rather stunning. It rivaled even her own. She had been sure he would break first. Perhaps he was done with her, after all. The idea soured as soon as it occurred. His anger was unbearable. His absence, she wouldn’t dare think of the hole it would leave.

Howie slid off the stool and left his unfinished drink. “Lemme take a piss and ya can take me home to yell ‘til the cows come home.”

She narrowed her eyes at his choice of words. She took a step back to allow him the space and watched him walk off towards the restroom facilities. And as soon as he was gone, the air was funneled out. She snuck a glance at the bartender- she thought his name was Wally or Barry or something with two consonants of that nature. His own gaze flickered from her to Harry before he muttered something about checking the inventory room for a sneaky bottle of rum he couldn’t find earlier.

“Harry-.”

She lost her words when he spun around on the stool. Elizabeth swallowed, their stares finally meeting. The past few days had been agony. She hadn’t seen or heard from him, something rare considering how much time they had spent together over the last few weeks. Harry had quickly become a normalcy in her life, someone she actually enjoyed being around and spending time with. The possibility that she had effectively ruined that was not settling well on her stomach.

He got on his feet and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. When his gaze left her, it was as if the sun burnt out. He walked right by her, no words offered, no apology given. Not even a second glance. Like she wasn’t even there.

“Harry. Please.”

Elizabeth Dandridge was not a begging person. If she felt as if she had to ask twice for something, it simply wasn’t worth asking for. No one should be asked to do something twice when it was more than reasonable to do whatever the first time around. Anyone who couldn’t deliver on that wasn’t worth her time or effort. Not that Elizabeth had ever needed to ask more than once for anything in her life. She asked, she received.

Except for, apparently, him.

He stopped in his tracks. Harry sighed and turned.

She gave a breath of relief. Finally, some progress. “Can we please just talk about-?”

“All righ’, Bet, m’beat and tired as all shit.”

She clamped her mouth shut, mentally cursing the day Howie had formed as a twin in utero. She dug her teeth into the tip of her tongue, eyes never leaving Harry.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Goodnight, Elizabeth.” He turned his back to her once again and disappeared off to his dressing room.

She cleared her throat, blinking back the beginnings of frustrated tears. “Let’s go home.” She muttered to her brother.

Howie slipped an arm over her shoulders and they walked out of the lounge. She held her hand out for the keys, but he didn’t deliver them. She reminded him that he had been drinking and would not be driving on account of it.

“M’feelin’ much better now, y’know.” He told her. “Mus’ be the fresh air.”

She shrugged him away. “Howard, I’m not an idiot.” She grabbed his chin and peered into his eyes. As she thought. There was no apparent redness or glaze. He was as sober as a priest. “I knew it. Why on earth was I called in the middle of the night to come for you if you were fully capable of getting home on your own?”

She could have still been asleep. Rather, tossing and turning fitfully as she had been the past few nights. She wouldn’t have had to embarrass herself by pleading for Harry to just talk to her.

“’Cause, Bet, I know ya just as well as ya know me.” Howie once again slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her to his side. “And I knew ya’d never talk to ‘im on yer own.”

_I’ll fix this. I’ll figure it out._

Howie rarely broke his word. This, so it seemed, was not one of those times. But Elizabeth had assumed Howie would convince Harry, somehow, to see reason and apologize. Clearly, she had been wrong. She just wasn’t sure what the plan _was_.

“Of course not.” She huffed. “He yelled at me, Howe. He said all those wretched things and _I’m_ supposed to apologize? Why should I be the one to act first, anyhow?”

They rounded upon the car and he opened the door for her. Once she was in, he shut it and got in the driver’s side. “Ya lied to ‘im. He’s hurt, needs to know ya care about ‘im.”

“But-.”

“Yer the most stubborn person I’ve ever known, Bet. And I was in a war. But now’s not the time to be bullheaded and he’s not the person to be bullheaded with. You and me know how ya feel about him, but he don’t. And if ya don’t do somethin’, yer gonna lose him.”

_Mistakes are easily made in the moment. Apologies are not._

Fucking hell.

She was going to have to apologize first.

The sun had only been up for an hour when the knocking began. Sharp, punctuated, and incessant. If Harry hadn’t already been awake, the sound would have pissed him off. But as luck would have it, Harry found himself un-swayed by the mistress of sleep as of late. Last night especially, after having seen Elizabeth.

Going days without laying eyes on her or hearing her voice was hard enough. But to see her and to have his heart pierced by that gentle pleading tone…He almost caved. The less sensible parts of him were convinced that her attempted plies of conversation were good enough; the rational parts of his mind knew that he deserved a real apology.

Harry threw open the door of his room and immediately took a step back.

“Elizabeth.”

Still in the same clothes from last night. Her eye-glasses still perched on the bridge of her nose, conspicuous hair covered by a black scarf. A flowerpot clutched in her hands, a small golden orange blossom above the dark soil. “May I…Could I come in?”

Whatever he expected, her surprise visit to his hotel room was not it. Then again, it was private and she had an image to maintain.

Harry stepped aside and waited for her to walk in. Once she was inside, he closed the door.

She stood, out of place and rigid among his things and the confectionary aurora of his room. The dark tones of her outfit overshadowed by the brilliant pinks and blues of the carpet and curtains. And yet, she managed to outshine all of it. “I brought you this.” She held out the plant. “Um, it’s a marigold. From my garden, actually, so it’s the picture of health.” Harry took the pot from her and placed it on the table against the wall. “They’re fairly easy to grow and I originally bought the whole bunch for my garden because they made me think of you when I first saw them. And then,” she lodged the crescent of her thumb nail to the corner of her mouth between her teeth, “on the way here, I realized I don’t know much of what you like besides singing and playing guitar and rescuing your friends from establishments of ill-repute.” The longer she spoke, the more her posh accent gave way to one nebulous and more akin to the way her brother enunciated his words. Her true voice, he realized.

Another part of herself she fought to keep hidden from the world. Another part that had to be killed so that the star could thrive.

Harry couldn’t help but crack a smile at her poor attempt of a joke. One of their last good memories before it all went up in flames.

“We talk so much about me and while I enjoy your endeavor to know me, I would like to learn more about you.” She released her thumb nail and sighed. “If that’s all right?”

Was that…Was that all she had to say to him? Granted, Harry knew she had qualms with apologizing and owning up to mistakes she didn’t believe she could ever make. But if any part of this- whatever _this_ was- was going to work, he needed a real and heavy apology from her. Not a half-assed attempt at expressing regret and guilt.

“That all?” He raised his eyebrows.

He was surprised when she shook her head.

Elizabeth held her hands together in front of her body, fingers knotted between one another. “I don’t apologize very often, I don’t much ever feel the need for it, since I’m rarely in the wrong. But I _was_ wrong, Harry, and I am sorry. I should have told you the reason we could only stay friends. Or I should have never allowed this to grow as it has.” Her foot faltered forward, the way it would if she were to take a step closer to him. “But I was selfish with you and, as much as I’ve tried, I can find no fault in that because I enjoy your company and _you_ make me happy.”

_He made her happy._

Apology be damned, she was admitting something. In the roundabout way he was beginning to learn that all true emotion came from her. He made her happy. And she was admitting to being wrong. Either she was making progress, or she had been replaced by a clone.

“You mean that?” He whispered. Still stuck on _you make me happy_. When a goddess confesses that you are a source of her happiness, there’s no forgetting it.

Elizabeth smiled that half-amused, half-exhausted smile he had grown to care for so much. “I rarely, if ever, say things I don’t mean.” This time, he stepped closer to her. But she held up a hand to stop him from going further. “And since only the truth exists between us, I feel the need to tell you that after you left the other day, I had to meet with Mr. Mayer, and he knows that we’ve been spending improper amounts of time together.”

Her boss. No wonder she had been so resolutely cross with him. Her meeting with her boss had been a proper scolding. Naturally, all of their outings would seem more intimate than what they were. No one would ever believe they were only friends. Harry didn’t even believe that.

There was something between them. Something raw and powerful that defied all reason and rationale, that answered only to the drum of their hearts. Even if she didn’t see it- or refused to- it was there. He didn’t expect it to be leaving anytime soon.

“What does that mean?” He asked her.

“If I’m not- if we are not careful, I will lose my job and that cannot happen.” The worry of it was clear in her eyes. As well as the absolution. She wouldn’t risk her dream, not for anything. Not for him. “I care for you, about you, Harry, I do. But I care for my job more. If you can’t understand or accept that, we will have to part here and now.”

The last few days without her presence had been excruciating. She was in his life, as much a part of it as anyone or anything else. He saw no way for her exit that ended well for his heart or her own for that matter. He spent his days thinking of her. His nights dreaming of her. Each chord played on his guitar a poor rendition of her silver laugh. Each lyric sung with the picture of her stardust freckles in his mind.

He was a space explorer and she the only galaxy he could fathom to be lost in. Nothing else would suffice. She was the supernova and she had swallowed him whole. At last.

“Harry…? I said-.”

“ _J’attendrai. Quelle que soit la durée, je vous attendrai_.”

There was no question of it. No need to think it over or second guess. She was a part of him and if the past few days were any testament to the rest of his life without her in the picture, he wouldn’t have it. He wouldn’t.

If friendship was the set course he had to follow to remain in her life, he would be the best friend she had ever had.

“I don’t know what that means.” She exhaled sharply. “You know I don’t speak French.”

And he was glad for it. If she knew the things he said in the other tongue, she would quit him immediately.

“It means,” he began his lie, “you and I will be the best of friends, Elizabeth Dandridge. I swear it.”

Even though she looked wary of the statement, it didn’t stop her from hugging him. He relished in the familiar scent of her perfume and the way she molded against him.

“I missed you.” He breathed.

“And I you.”

Yes, friendship would have to be enough.


	11. eleven: hardships: the making and the breaking

Life was, as a general rule, made up of trials and tribulations. Or so Elizabeth heard often enough. While the lives of everyone around her seemed ever turbulent and amassed by hardships and misadventures on the way to whatever happiness they struggled to achieve, her own life was as seamless as a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky.

Until, that was, Harry.

The storm that rolled in from nowhere and the rays of sunlight that came shining through after. Perpetually, always. If she had been someone who believed in the mystery of Fate of Destiny, she would have chalked his arrival into her life to one of them. There was no answer or rhyme or reason for the blinding beam of light in her world. Nor was there answer, rhyme, or reason for the way her heart fluttered before soaring at the thought of him. The sound of his name. Her name from his lips. The precariously carefree fashion his fingers plucked over the strings of his guitar.

He was everything. He could be everything.

He was nothing. He had to be nothing.

"Elizabeth." Gregory stood before her, clad in his cliché tan trench coat with the horrendously matching hat. Red mark still festering on his cheek from where she had slapped him ten minutes ago. "You are much stronger than you look."

"Thank you." She paused, "I think?"

He nodded, assuring her it was definitely a compliment. "How about you and I grab dinner tonight? Seven, at the Swan?"

Her hand stilled as she reached for the bowl of almonds. Elizabeth regarded him with narrow-cut eyes. They both bore the chains of the same morality clause. No dating. Especially when it came to co-stars. Not only did it interfere with the desired availability of stars, it could make for a messy life on set.

Elizabeth already had one man vying for her heart and unknowingly threatening her career; she didn't need another.

Her teeth captured the soft flesh of her cheek, worrying it until it became sore. There had to be a simple way to let him down easy while also making herself abundantly clear. She was _not_ interested. Though, if she did have to choose a fellow star to saddle herself with, Gregory Peck would have been her first choice. Kind, compassionate, awkwardly humorous, and silently stunning. He vouched for her in and out of the shadows. He had also been her first kiss. Not that she actually counted it, since it was for a film, but semantics were semantics. He was the reason her lips were no longer of the virgin count.

"That's very sweet of you to offer, Gregory. But you and I are both aware-."

His quick glance over to Mr. Freeman and Mr. Rush captured her attention and her words were lost. Their director and producer were deep in hushed conversation, each holding a script and marking over them furiously.

"Before you go and reject me," Gregory regained her attention when he looked back at her, "Mayer told me to ask you."

Mr. Mayer sent him to ask her on a dinner date?

Elizabeth wasn't unaccustomed to the finer workings of Hollywood. While all actors and actresses under contract at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer were subject to their morality clauses, that never stopped the majority of them from getting caught up in whirlwind romances or even getting married. Some married each other, or stars from other studios. Some even went so far as to marry regular old people. Gregory himself had tested the limits of his clause and Mr. Mayer's grace. Elizabeth supposed she was the only one who managed to stay true to her signature at the bottom of her contract. No matter how many times she almost slipped up.

It wasn't uncommon for costars to be coerced into relationships for one another. They never lasted more than a few dates, certainly never beyond the length of filming their picture. Costars being seen together on dates was a guarantee of generating buzz and excitement about their upcoming film. However, Elizabeth hadn't yet been thrown into this game. Her time filming _Elegance_ and _Flight Star_ hadn't required pretending to date her co-lead.

Which meant...

This was more about her relationship with Harry than promoting _Twisted Mystic_. A test. Insurance.

She swallowed, putting on her best smile. "Pick me up at six-thirty."

~~~~~

The same burnt color as the Californian sunset, the same jarring orange as a mansion in Beverly Hills, the flower on the table haunted him. A tragically beautiful reminder of what he was losing. Who he was losing. In the same moment that he introduced himself to her and gained her presence in his life, he had begun to lose Elizabeth Dandridge.

Harry was a firm believer that he met everyone for a reason. Each person was a lesson for something or another. Whether they stayed or went, that was something else entirely. And with everything, he truly believed Elizabeth was meant to stay in his life. Her lesson- he was still unsure of its true form- was a matter of the heart. Was she just to teach him that hearts were breakable? He knew that a long time ago.

She was breaking his heart. Little by little, piece by piece. As the days wore on, his heart continued to shed pieces. Each time she denied him, denied herself. Perhaps he would have given in, had it not been abundantly clear that this was killing her the same as it was him. Her forward apology was enough proof of that.

The cruel blade of the knife was plunged so far into his heart there was no hope for recovery. Love had never been a feathered embrace. It had never been a lush touch or tame courter. Love was volatile and merciless. Wicked in all ways. Whoever said otherwise had never experienced the heartache and misery. Willingly, readily, just as he had subjected himself to the feasting of her monster, he had thrusted her knife into his chest with only the faintest hope she would do the same for him.

Each day, his hope waned.

She held the knife in her hand. Watched it with those keen, abysmal eyes that never missed a thing. Regarded its meaning and overturned every possibility. And never moved. Her hand never shook. Her posture never faltered. She was a statue, frozen in her state of skepticism.

Maybe she didn't believe in love.

From what Harry knew, and saw in the war, love made reckless fools out of all it touched. People in love were overcome with it and performed at the slightest provocation.

Elizabeth Dandridge wasn't one to be made a fool of.

She could have been scared. Then again, she didn't strike him as someone who shied away from her feelings just because she was afraid of what they meant.

Deep down, he knew all her reasoning lay in her job. That dream she chased relentlessly, fingers curled around it in an iron grasp. Somehow, someway, the admittance of whatever she felt for him would result in the loss of her job. The morality clause loomed over him and taunted him. And the masochist he was, he refused to quit her.

Being in her life as her friend was undoubtedly better than not being in it at all. Even if he was bleeding out because of it.

~~~~~

Annoying as it was to be forced into a date, Elizabeth could not say that it wasn't an impeccable one. Though, she had no true experience to further that claim. Unless, of course, she counted her many adventures with Harry as dates. Not that she could because that would be naming their relationship as something beyond the bounds of friendship. To do so was to endanger them both. Those encounters had to remain as meaningless as any amount of time she spent with her brother.

It was Elizabeth's first time dining at the Swan. A restaurant known for its lack of privacy from the press, it still remained a well-known spot for a romantic dinner between actual couples of golden status. A dimly lit dining room complete with lush red carpeting, soft-toned chandeliers hanging low. A live band playing sweet, low melodies. Two tall candles at each table, silver sticks flared against cream satin tablecloths. A bottle of wine _and_ champagne. All set in such a grandiose and elegant fashion, Elizabeth wondered how anyone ever dined another way after.

And even so, the golden-brown roasted quail under a pomegranate glaze held no candle to a chicken salad sandwich on the beach.

Even with several other couples occupying tables, enjoying their own meals and hushed conversations, it isn't hard to pick out those who don't belong. Scrawling furiously into notepads. Bulking cameras around their necks limply or clutched in their hands.

She had almost forgotten what it was like to have another's gaze pierced on her in the effort to capture something worth money. On her journey of learning what it was like to be seen, she had slowly been forgetting what it was like to be simply seen.

"How's your brother?" Gregory took a slow drink of the deep red wine. He hadn't yet finished half his first glass, even though they'd been eating for half an hour. She got the feeling he was almost as reserved as she when it came to the drink.

"He's well." She nodded, pushing a Brussel sprout with her fork. "He mentioned moving back home in the next little while. Possibly when the renovations on the house are complete." Which she hoped was soon.

As soon as his debt was paid to Claymont and Howie returned the money he owed her, he was out. She would send him straight back to Port Aransas with express packaging. She might even have considered forgiving what he owed her.

"And how is our favorite singer?" Gregory's eyes were alight with frivolous amusement. Even from across the table, candlelight flickering over sculpted features, playful smile on his face, he didn't seem wholly human. She knew then, what everyone meant when they called people like them _untouchable_ , _divine_ , _ethereal_.

Elizabeth stiffened. She blinked. But she gave no answer.

"From the Midnight Lounge." Gregory reached for his wine. "Harry's his name, I believe?"

Had this...was this all an elaborate set-up by Mr. Mayer to scour information from her? Send her on a fake-date in the guise of rousing publicity for the film when really the goal was to garner information on the true nature of her relationship with Harry. She would not be so stupid as to fall into a trap of that sort.

"Who?" She blinked again before taking a small sip of her tea.

Gregory stared back at her, smile disappearing. In that moment, all was lost. He knew that she knew. She never should have trusted him. "Don't play dumb, Elizabeth. It's just us here and-."

"And what?" She snapped. All semblance of manner and poise gone. There was nothing she hated more than a snake in the grass. "I remembered your warning. I heeded it. Harry and I are friends, and barely that." The words caught in her throat. Not a lie, but not wholly the truth. Yes, they were friends, but they lingered on the precipice of more. He eager to take the leap of faith and she hesitant to put all she held dear on the line.

She may have been fool enough to get close to him but she wasn't an idiot. She wouldn't enter a relationship with him. And even if she had, she wouldn't admit to Gregory.

"I'd like to think you and I are friends." He pushed his wine glass to the center of the table. The bones of his once plump quail now picked clean by the vulture. If she didn't tread carefully that would be her.

"We are."

Deny, deny, deny.

The amused quirk returned to his mouth as he regarded her. She had never once before been caught in a lie and she didn't expect him to be the first person to unmask her. He may have been a star, but underneath his fame he was still a human. A man, at that. Subject to the flutter of her eyelashes and a coy smile. A half-attempted remark of pure flirtation. Gregory had talent that made him special and elevated him, but he was still prey to her. People believed what they wanted to. And Harry had taught her ways to make sure any man would believe anything that spilled from her lips. Truth or otherwise.

She could say the sky was bright yellow and a man would take her word for it.

Gregory hummed. "Interesting." _How so_ , she can't help but ask. Whatever he had, whatever bait he held over her, she wanted to know it. "Nothing, really. It's just..." He rolled his lips together, gauging her expression before sighing. "You and I are friends. You and Harry are friends." _Yes_ , she replied. "But you don't look at me the way you look at him. And I know for a fact I don't watch you the way he does."

She sucked in a breath.

She could put all her effort into keeping her hands to herself and physically distancing herself from Harry but none of it would alter the way he captured her attention. Nor would holding him at arm's length stop him from looking at her the way he did. The only solution was to completely cut him from her life, to quit him and never look back. Elizabeth was strong in many ways and at many things, but she couldn't find the strength to leave Harry alone.

"You can talk to me. I'm not on Mayer's side. I want you to be happy." Gregory said quietly. "I'm married, you know."

Her eyes snapped up from her near-full plate. Gregory was married? Good lord, since when? And they were on a date! Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

"Excuse me?"

He smiled. His hand fumbled under the table before producing a black leather wallet. From it, he pulled a small photograph. She reached across the table and took it gingerly. It was of him and a beautiful woman. She held an infant in her arms.

"You rake." Elizabeth chided him. "Married with a child and you've got me at the Swan." Her tongue clicked as she handed the photograph back to him, careful to keep it from the flames.

He tucked the photo back into his wallet for safe-keeping. "Her name's Greta. We have a boy, Jonathan. She's pregnant again." Every word he spoke, her mouth became drier. "I had a clause too, Elizabeth. And I broke it. Because I loved her. Mayer was furious and he threatened to fire me every time we spoke. One day, I marched into his office and told him that I loved her and I intended to marry her. If he didn't like it, I would quit. I handed him my resignation, offered to buy out the rest of my contract and then told him that Paramount would be happy to have my talents, _with_ the ring on my finger."

It all had very clearly worked out for him. He was still employed under Mr. Mayer. Still making pictures. Still married. Obviously, his wife was understanding of what it meant to be a star like them. She had to be, since Gregory was with Elizabeth on what appeared to be a romantic date.

"What does she say about all this?" Elizabeth asked him. "The false dates and the rumors."

Gregory shrugged. "She's very beautiful when she's jealous. That's all I'll say on the matter." He grinned as her cheeks warmed. "Don't be afraid to do what you want. To be with who you want. You're a rare talent and the studio is lucky to have you. Everyone knows it, Mayer included. You would have to do far worse than breaking that clause for him to get rid of you. Possibly not even murder would deter him."

She bit the inside of her cheek. All his words and affirmations sounded so lovely. Encouraging to the point she had half the mind to leave and storm into the Midnight Lounge. However, the nagging voice in the back of her head was rational and relentless.

Gregory was a man and he lived in a man's world. He had freedoms she would never be entitled to. He could break his clause as much and as often as he wanted, with his wife or otherwise. Male leads were treasured and sacred. Female leads...Elizabeth knew just how disposable they could be. After all, she had been whisked in right as Mayer was throwing out his best talents, Joan Crawford and Greta Garbo. If he could toss them out and replace them with her, just how easily replaceable was she?

"You act as if any of it matters." The bottle of wine was tempting, rule be damned. All this talk of emotions and clauses and marriage had her head spinning. As much as she wanted, she didn't pour herself a glass. If she wanted a drink, it would have to wait until she was in the privacy of her own home. The last thing she needed was to be seen drinking and labeled a souse. The only type of woman Mr. Mayer hated more than a floozy was a drunkard floozy. "I'm still under contract for four years and you know as well as I do what that clause says."

"The morality clause cannot command your heart. But if you let it, it will command your career."

She clasped her hands in her lap. "It does command my career, because you and I are not the same. I'm a woman, Gregory. Which means I'm replaceable. If I screw up, Mr. Mayer won't hesitate to throw me out the same way he did Joan before I arrived. This is my life, and I will not ruin it because of a man. I'm free to make my choice and I've chosen my career."

He pressed his mouth down into a firm line. His eyes flitted to the wine before pouring a small amount into her empty glass. As he put the bottle back with one hand, he pushed her glass toward her with the other. She shook her head, informing him of her decision not to drink. "You might be the purest starlet in Hollywood, Ms. Dandridge." He shook his head. "But take it from me and don't take it lightly: you'll never be free if you're lonely."

Was she lonely? Was being alone and being lonely different or the same? No, different, they were most decidedly different.

She wasn't alone. Howie lived with her. She spent an obscene amount of time with Harry. She was surrounded day in and day out. Never alone. Always in the company of someone. Her only stolen moments of solitude were found in her garden. There among a technicolor spread of flowers that never spoke or asked her for any sacred part of her. Their only request her time and the caring nourishment she offered.

Why were people not more like flowers?

She was lonely. Her mission of becoming the best actress Hollywood would ever know came with daunting isolation. Perfection only achievable on her own. As she grew closer to her goal, she grew farther from contact. She had distanced herself from anyone and everyone on the way to stardom, substituting human contact with practice and lessons.

And while the realization of her self-desertion among the human populace lingered in her mind, Gregory's assumption that she _needed_ someone burned. She had never needed anyone. And she never would. "I can subside my loneliness without the unnecessary noose of a lover, thank you." She muttered, nudging the wine glass toward him. "Women are mean to be more than trophies for men to decorate their homes with."

That was as radical as she would get with him. She didn't need a ring or a piece of paper or a cooking apron or two wailing children. She didn't want that prison. She wanted her name in glittering lights and vibrant posters. People shouting her name, for her autograph.

_She wanted Harry._

God, not that she would ever say _that_.

Gregory chuckled, "Yes, I know that." As his laughter subsided, "But I also know people like us. We're passionate and embroiled with an unquenchable thirst. You spend all this time alone and you're never lonely? And now you've had a taste of freedom, true freedom in whatever solace he gives, and you'll say you don't ache for it?"

Men didn't grant freedom. They granted war and strife and turmoil. A noose of their own that they guised under love and care. She was as free as she ever had been, and it didn't matter that Harry rose above it all. Being with him would no doubt be as confining as any other relationship any other man would offer.

"I'm free now." She countered. "I could never be truly free with a man. I hear you all like to keep leashes on your wives."

That would never be her.

Untamable. Unfathomable. Free and wild as the open sea.

"You're not free, Elizabeth. You've got a noose around your neck in the shape of a contract and it's choking you. You aren't free if you can't do what you love _and_ have who you love at your side." Gregory said quietly. He glanced around the restaurant before leaning forward toward her, "And I have the sneaking suspicion that Styles would never hinder you so long as it made you happy."

~~~~~

People get a feeling of bad tidings. A chill that would streak up their spine. A sinking feeling that bubbled in their gut. A prickle against their bones that raised the hairs on the back of the neck. The unshakable feeling that something dreadful was coming and there was no way to stop it.

Harry woke with that feeling. Stomach uneasy and ribs shaking. Granted, he'd had a feeling of similar nature since the moment he first locked eyes with Elizabeth. But this...the feeling reminded him of the battlefield.

The same gut feeling that had overtaken him when the bomb went off and Lewis became nothing more than pink mist and a memory. A letter home, _we regret to inform you of your son's passing_ , an empty box in the ground.

But the war was over and nothing so tremoring or jarring could happen. Perhaps the club would be sparse tonight. Or Claymont would rear his bull-head and make some sort of threat. Nothing Harry couldn't handle.

Three sharp knocks on the door, accompanied by a quick, "Mornin', Mr. Styles!"

He roused himself from the bed, dismissing the dread that continued to creep upon him. A lion stalking its prey. It was the same routine every morning. He awoke before the wake-up call, sentient enough to register what awaited him on the other side of the door. A proper full breakfast, the way his mum used to treat him with. And the morning paper. Hollywood was an intriguing place and the news never failed to leave a stitch in his side.

As always, the cart was outside his door. He rolled it inside, glancing over the headline of the paper's front page as he did. Something about a planned power outage the next day, for line repairs. He pushed the cart next to the small squared table and placed the covered platter on the table. Grabbing the paper and his coffee, he got comfortable. He uncovered the platter and set to work.

The kitchen downstairs did an ace job of imitating the English breakfast meal. Crisped bacon, salted sausage patties, three eggs sunny-side-up, a small helping of blood pudding, even smaller dose of cold beans, four tomato slivers paired with sauteed mushrooms, and two diagonal pieces of buttered toast. His mum only made him and Gemma a full breakfast on Sunday mornings, but she took care and time doing it and never failed. One Mother's Day, he and his sister tried to replicate the meal to serve it to their mother in bed. Both young, they'd almost set the house on fire. Their only gift that day to their mum was a kitchen full of black smoke and the unmanageable smell of burnt pork.

He flipped through the paper as he ate, feeling a proper regular sort of guy. The type with a day job, loving wife, and energetic children. Maybe a dog. A house instead of a room at the Beverly Hills. A garden full of marigolds and orchids. And perhaps the house has walls the same toasted shade as the evening sky, sun lowering on the horizon. And perhaps the children have the same fire hair as-.

**Dandridge and Peck: Co-stars, Lovebirds, or Both?**

His eyes glanced over the bolded words before doubling back to them. The bacon caught in his throat and he banged his chest while trying to swallow. He swigged down the scalding coffee, leaning closer to the paper.

She was unmistakable. Even photographed in black and white, image grainy, he knew Elizabeth anywhere.

His bones ached. Heart shredded. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from her photo. _Their_ photo. Because she was with Gregory Peck. Sat across from each other at a candlelit dinner, both staring intensely at one another. A bottle of wine, two glasses. The words _I don't drink_ sizzling in his brain.

_You make me happy._

All she did was lie. Why had he been stupid enough to believe her?


End file.
